


The Dirge Interlude

by BookishTea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Attempted Murder, BAMF Molly Hooper, Creepy Love Letters, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Graphic Description, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty, Jealous Sherlock, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Murder, Murder Mystery, Necrophilia, Poetry, Pregnant Mary, Protective Sherlock, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Serial Killers, Sexual Content, Stalker, Swearing, Unrequited Love, Vacation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:41:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 39,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3707635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BookishTea/pseuds/BookishTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not content with the routine Molly calls life, she craves more. Stepping off into the unknown, she tries to find peace not only with herself, but others. And in doing so, she faces more risks than she ever knew. </p><p>*Finally revised*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prologue: Ramblings

Molly was downright bored, and unlike previous times, she felt as if she was drowning in the feeling. Seated on her sofa, Molly wiggled her toes absently in her fuzzy socks. She had read every book in her house, perhaps a dozen times over. And even then, she wasn’t nearly tempted enough to walk to the local bookstore. Only re-runs were being aired on the telly, and it wasn’t as if anything was happening romance wise. The only obvious solution was the morgue, the corpses always did perk up her day. The gossip on the other hand, quickly had Molly brushing the idea off. Unlike most, Molly found death’s presence soothing. Her patients never complained, and each body revealed something fascinating about the person. Her fellow workers didn’t share the notion and found Molly’s relaxed attitude unnerving. When it became apparent that Molly preferred work rather than taking time off, well, people naturally started whispering.

This was contradicted when she eventually decided that she needed a week to herself, something that surprised all of the St. Barts' staff. Not even a couple of hours into her first day of freedom, Molly was at a loss at what to do. All of her paperwork was completed, and anyone she considered a friend was busy with their own life. House already clean, Molly stewed in lassitude, and Toby was clearly fed up with the over zealous amount of attention. Bastard.

Sighing she stretched her legs out further. Head tilting back until the sofa cushions cradled her skull, and the muscles in her legs burned from the taunt form. Releasing the pose, her body sagged into fabric, all too aware of the familiar scent of tea, cat, and dusty books.

 _I could call Mary up?_   No, she was probably busy being pregnant.

 _John?_ He was surely busy babying Sherlock and/or doing a case right now.

 _Sher_ \- No. She wasn’t even going to go there.

Drumming her fingers, Molly gave a frustrated hum. Clubbing wasn’t an option, the bars weren’t even open and an embarrassing experience in uni stopped that line of thought. The hazy memory of vodka and streaking through a crowded campus had Molly grimacing, that, and the hangover.

Thinking about uni, Molly smiled as she remembered the towering work and the barely edible meals. _Not much different now_ , she thought, shuddering at the sudden flashback of St Bartholomew’s Mac N’ Cheese horror. Everything was just a routine to her lately, analyze bodies, feed Toby, and slide a couple of body parts over to Sherlock - usually blushing and stuttering the whole bloody time... No, what she needed was some mystery in her life. Something that gave her a different aura, or even a whole different layer. 

Obviously she wasn’t going to start killing, too much work... and not to mention illegal...

“Do you have any ideas, Toby?” She asked, watching as her feline companion paused in his bathing.

The pair stared at each other for a moment, Toby glaring from his spot on the dresser.

Looking away, Molly rolled her eyes. “Well, I can always watch a movie.”

She huffed as she jumped to her feet, shuffling over to the dvd cabinet. Grabbing a handful at random, Molly frowned at the covers. She had seen all of these at least once, and Jaws wasn’t exactly morning material. “I guess that’s a no to swimming” Molly muttered, briefly smiling as Toby meowed in response.

“Oh! Maybe Dead Poets Society? What do you think, Toby?”

He blinked at her. 

“...yeah, probably too sad.”

Honestly, this was getting ridiculous. There was nothing to do.

 _Well I could always join a secret society_.

Snorting at the idea, Molly shook her head. Wouldn’t that be a riot? By day plain Molly Hooper and by night a member of some enigmatic organization. Quietly laughing to herself, Molly placed the movies back on the shelf and returned to the couch. Stopping mid-step, she froze. No one would expect it, and she would certainly seem mysterious.

“Sherlock would probably deduce it, that and the colours of my fucking knickers as well.” She grumbled.

“It’s a good thing I didn’t settle on the killing then." And at that precise moment, Molly's phone rang. Shrill, the sound echoed throughout the house with an insistent wail.

"Great, maybe Sherlock already told Greg about my almost killing spree."


	2. A Wet Case

_5:45 AM_

With a crackle, lightning flashed across the sky. Heavily lurking in the churning heavens, the streaks danced about. Men and women dressed in uniforms shivered, huddling in a cramped alleyway. Like a steel cord, the rain whipped the backs of the officers with a stinging vengeance.

Blinded by the rain, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade squinted uselessly. Teeth clattering from the frigid cold, he tried to settle even further into his coat. Which proved fruitless, as already it had sodden through the material.

“How much rain do we seriously need right now?” Greg growled, snuffling loudly as a particularly large droplet exploded on his face.

“I hear it’s supposed to get worse, a real storm.” Sally Donovan said, shifting her weight onto her left leg.

Groaning under his breath, Greg tossed a weary look over his shoulder. Searching for any dry space, people bustled like ants spilling from a hill. Unaware of the death of another so close, it was disgusting. Shaking his head, beads of water were flung, splattering on the cobblestone.

“Just what we need,” he sighed, “alright! Let’s hurry this up and get the fuck out of here!” He barked loudly. 

“There’s no need to be vulgar, Graham.” A sanctimonious voice rang out, the deep baritone settling nicely with the dismal weather. To Greg, the sound was like nails on a chalkboard. Thankfully he didn’t need to say anything.

“It’s Greg” John corrected with an exasperated groan.

“Right. And what are we exactly dealing with, _Greg?_ ” Sherlock asked.

Finally turning around, Greg stared long and hard at the world’s only consulting detective. Which was admittedly hard to do with the rain sliding down his face. Not like he’d ever let Sherlock Holmes know that fact.

Sherlock stiffly stood in the alley's entrance, seemily unaffected by the elements. With raindrops effortlessly rolling off his Belstaff, Sherlock looked considerably better than his partner. Shivering like any of the other police officers, John’s blonde hair was plastered to his face. A bit flushed, it was apparent that he wanted to get out of the rain as quickly as possible.  _Who doesn’t?_   Greg bitterly thought. Eyes returning once more to Sherlock, Greg took note that his inky locks puffed out more than usual. Realizing the same thing, Sally snorted from his side, glad to find even the smallest of things wrong with Sherlock.

Brows creasing at this reaction, Sherlock’s pale eyes flashed with annoyance. Greg cleared his throat and began to list off the obvious.

“Male victim in his early thirties. No identification on him, but we’re searching the surrounding areas. From just a glance, strangulation. The hand imprints are quite large, so I’m saying a male killer.” Taking a pause, Greg grimaced at the body covered in a white tarp, which was partially hidden from view.

“But besides that, there isn’t much to go on. We’ll wait until the autopsy comes in. And the rain isn’t helping matters, a lot of evidence is fuc- Er, is _washed away_...”

Sherlock nodded when he gave the surroundings a glance over. “It's obvious that you have things handled here, just be sure to notify me when Molly is finished with her report.” Just as he was about to walk off, Greg cleared his throat again.

“ _Yes?"_   Sherlock asked, a small amount of irritation sneaking from under his neutral mask. 

“That’s going to be a bit hard, yeah?” Greg grumbled, hand reaching up to scratch behind his ear.

“And why is that?” Sherlock questioned, a brow raising.

“Molly’s on vacation, but I thought you’d know that,” Sally sneered, leaping into the conversation before Greg could get another word in. "Even being a genius you’re a pretty shitty friend.”

“Sally!” Greg scolded, all too aware of John’s tightening fists. Startling enough, he still made no move to stand up for his friend. _They probably had another argument_ , Greg thought. Making no comment on the latter, Sherlock looked oddly puzzled.

“And why would she need a vacation? Molly is fully aware that I’m in need of her assistance on cases." Head tilting lightly, he mulled this new information over.

Rightening himself, Sherlock’s gaze snapped back to Greg. “If that’s everything, I have other matters to attend to." And without waiting for a response he stormed off. The swift movement causing a wave of water to launch itself at Greg and Sally. Trailing silently behind, John made sure to give an apologetic glance to the Inspector, and only him.

Shaking bits of the liquid off, Sally loudly hissed “ _Freak!"_ through bared teeth.

Cursing under his breath, Greg returned his attention back to his work.

“Alright, let’s load our buddy up and out of this bloody weather!” Jumping at the command, a few officers began to wheel a gurney over to the body. Plunging a numb hand into his coat pocket, Greg clutched the lighter nestled deeply within. Frowning at the urge to smoke, he wished it wasn’t raining and that he didn’t have a need to. But more importantly, that Sherlock didn't take him for his fucking secretary. 

* * *

 

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed, trying to match his friend’s stride as he walked away from the crime scene. “Slow down, will you!?” And much like what he expected, Sherlock didn’t even spare him a glance. Instead his face remained dark, muscles in his jaw clenching. Rumbling, John could only catch bits of what he said, “Unbelievable... vacation? ...The nerve of... obsession."

Stumbling, John barely managed to catch himself before he fell. And of course Sherlock didn’t appear the least bit concerned for his friend. Prick.

“Hey, now Sherlock... don’t listen to Sally. Even if you can be annoying, I still consider you my best friend.” John mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets as he avoided the other’s stare.

“Shut up, John.”

Spinning his gaze back to Sherlock, indignation flared within John’s chest, “ _Excuse me?"_   Stopping abruptly, Sherlock whirled around.

“Is it really hard for you to not be an idiot your whole life?” Sherlock snarled, raising his left hand to accusingly point in John’s direction. Halting as well, John’s mouth became dry as he struggled to swallow the animosity that fought to control him. Ignoring the flaring of his friend’s nostrils, Sherlock continued.

“If you used any of those brain cells in that bulky head of your's, you’d realize that I hold no weight in _Detective Sergeant  Donovan_ ’s words. No, what I care about is being tied down because of incompetence.” Sherlock thundered, clearing the distance between the pair in a few long steps. Hunching slightly over, Sherlock peered at John with a barely restrained rage. “And Molly Hooper has managed to do just this, forcing me to work with twits who don’t know the difference between asphyxiation and suffocation!”

Pale cheeks colouring with the outburst, Sherlock noisily huffed. Cocking a brow, John watched as his partner reigned his emotions back in check. “And what? You’re mad at Molly for taking a break?” Disbelief shading his tone, _what an insufferable..._

”You’re not listening, John.” Sherlock hissed, giving a shake of his head at his companion's stupidity. “I’m frustrated with her selfish actions, even when she knows that she’s desired elsewhere.”

“Desired?!" John choked out, eyes bulging as he looked at Sherlock. And he really looked at him.

“For the greater good!” Sherlock added, rolling his eyes. “Oh for God’s sake, John. This isn’t some trashy romance novel that Mary and Molly like to fawn over, this is real life! The truth is that those morons at St Barts' will only hinder my work, meaning that it will take me even longer to catch criminals and to save lives!”

Body trembling, Sherlock appeared ready to spring to action at any moment. Taking a large gulp of cold air, John stepped forward. Nerves taut in expectation, he steadied himself. “Now you listen here, Sherlock. Molly doesn’t owe you a bloody thing.”

“I never-”

“Not a fucking _thing!_ Heaven forbid she realizes that now, or she’d never stick around.” Feeling sad at the thought, John’s face softened.

Flinching, hitting Sherlock would have done less damage. “I know,” he muttered, turning around until his back faced John. “I know that more than anyone else,” and with that he strolled off, not once looking back. 

Thunder slapping sound from John’s ears, it left an ache. While the wind dug its nails into his side, John bunched his shoulders, praying for the rain to stop. “Oh hell..."

* * *

 

Leaning up from her reclined position, Mary Watson eagerly grabbed the ringing cellphone. Not like she’d ever admit it, but lazing around the house was really getting to her. Waiting to hear about John’s exciting day wasn’t enough, the sooner this baby was popped out the better.

“Hello, soon to be mother Mary Watson speaking.”

“Before you say anything, I need a favour.” Rolling her eyes at her husband’s tired voice, Mary slowly placed her body back onto the bed. “No, hello the love of my life. How are you?” Snorting, Mary gave a sleepy smirk, “I’m really feeling the love, sweetheart.”

Giving a profound exhale, the corners of John’s mouth twitched with a smile. “As much as I enjoy professing my undying affection for you, I'm in a sticky situation.”

“Ooh, is there guns involved?”

“Only if Sherlock provokes me enough.” Ignoring the sound of his wife’s laughter, John continued, “Sherlock found out that Molly’s on vacation, so I need you to get her out of that flat." Mary’s laughing came to a standstill and was calmly replaced with a “Is that so?”

“Look, he won’t hurt her... I’m just afraid he’ll lash out and regret it later, so can you please take her out or something?”

Mary frowned, the image of the flustered pathologist yelled at by her crush was... distressing. Especially when she took so much of what he said to heart. Chewing on her bottom lip, Mary slowly responded, now taking in the view of the pouring rain from a nearby window. “Wouldn’t it be better for her to not suspect a thing, and you know, relax in her own home?”

“No, that’ll be the first place he’d check. And that way it gives me more time to talk with him, that, and I know how badly you want to get out of the house. Who knows, the whole thing could be exciting. I don’t expect hiding from Sherlock bleeding Holmes to be easy.” Giggles bubbling in Mary’s throat, she couldn’t help but rise to the challenge.

“Oh don’t worry, sweetheart. I don’t plan on losing to our little detective." Humming a goodbye, Mary made quick work of hanging up and immediately calling Molly.

On the fourth ring Mary was graced with a “Hello?” And even at that Mary rose a brow. Usually Molly picked up at the second ring at least, but before she could properly greet her friend, Mary was taken aback by, “I swear I didn’t kill anyone!”

 _Well, maybe Sherlock already beat me to it_ , Mary thought with a disappointed sigh. **  
**

 


	3. Anxiety On The Prowl!

“Are you all right, Molly?”

Cringing, the pathologist couldn’t help but feel guilty at Mary’s concerned voice. “Yeah, I’m fine... absolutely...”  Fighting the urge to slap herself, Molly raised her eyes heavenward.

“Okay... uh, I was wondering if you’d like to go out for a coffee or something.”

“Coffee?” Looking back down, Molly threw her gaze over to her clock. _6:02 AM._

Taken off guard, Molly’s brows knitted together. “Um, sure. Yeah, okay.” And afterwards an uncomfortable silence filled the space between the two, with Molly opening her mouth to try and form words, but only to clamp it shut when no noise came out. Mary, on her end, just sat there amused.

Deciding to throw her a bone, Mary suddenly said, “Okay, well I’ll text you the address. I’ll meet you there in, um, forty minutes?”

Nodding her head in acceptance, Molly gave a jolt when she realized that she needed to voice her consent. “Yeah, sure! I’ll see you there.” Cracking under the pressure, Molly’s throat fizzed until it sounded like she was going through puberty again. Mind short-circuiting, Molly’s breath quickened until it came out in pants. Feeling like a heavy piece of lead had landed in the bottom of her stomach, she tried to tackle her anxiety before it consumed her.

_Oh God, what if I screw up and look like a complete idiot in the coffeehouse? Then Mary would tell John, and then John would tell Sherlock! Naturally then everyone would know about me messing up, I’d be the laughing stock of bloody London, maybe the whole kingdom! What if I spill tea everywhere!? I could get it on Mary, and then the baby could get hurt from the burning! Oh no, I’d go to jail for assault, I can’t survive in jail. I-_

“Molly? Are you still there?” Gulping as much lungfuls of air as she could, Molly somehow managed to calm herself enough to respond. “Yep, I’m fine. I-I’ll see you in forty.”

“Okay, see you there, dear.”

Ending the call, Mary shook her head. Now that was odd, Molly not talking for a while and... breathing heavily into the phone...?

 _What a strange girl_ , Mary thought with a slight smirk. Slowly clambering out of bed, Mary's eyes darted at the mirror hanging from the wall. Hands placed on her hips, her attention hovered over her stomach, only beginning to bulge out. Shuddering at the thought of future pregnancy pants, Mary began to dress herself for the upcoming adventure.

* * *

  ****

Swinging open abruptly, the door to the morgue smashed against the white wall. Jumping into the air with shock etched onto his face, Mike Stamford paused in his conversation.

Stalking into the room, Mike thought Sherlock looked as if he had eaten nails for breakfast.

“You!” He roared, eyes narrowing into slits as he strode forward with such determination that it caused Mike to step back. "How could you think it logical to allow Ms. Hooper to use her vacation days? Of all times?!"

Focused solely on Sherlock, Mike blinked. Oozing between them a discomforting blanket of stillness smothered any potential communication. This continued for what felt an eternity, and surprisingly enough, neither Sherlock nor Mike were the one to fill the void.

“Sho- Should I leave, Mr. Stamford?” A timid voice rang out, despite being spoken quietly. It felt like a slap to the senses. Turning his neck with blinding speed, Sherlock finally noticed the man who Mike was previously holding a discussion with.

Baby faced, the man before him had bags under his eyes, a clear sign of insomnia or stress from his work. A glance to the identification card that loosely hung from his neck revealed him to be, a Glenn Perko. _Hm... obviously of Croatian descent_ , Sherlock realized with a sniff.

Greying blonde hair cut too short, Glenn shifted uneasily under Sherlock’s stare. Glad that he wasn’t Sherlock’s means of limelight, Mike tried to calmly speak aloud, that is, under such circumstances. “Er- this is Glenn Perko, Molly’s temporary replacement while she’s away on... uh, vacation."

Snorting at this, Sherlock peered at Glenn’s hands. _Dry, probably washes them frequently, germaphobe?_ Sherlock questioned, a gander at his stained lab coat squashed that theory. _Most likely insecure about his hands_. And at that moment Mike obnoxiously coughed to get Sherlock’s immersion.

“You should take a cough drop for that, Mike.” Sherlock sighed in annoyance. Surveying Glenn once again, Sherlock squinted. _He’s either new to this field or he’s clumsy with his hands_. _Nevertheless, a_ _hindrance_.  

Recollecting Molly’s dainty but nimble fingers, Sherlock grimaced. He’d be working twice as hard as he corrected Glenn Perko’s mistakes, meaning his rate for solved crimes would decrease by thirty percent.

“Sherlock?”

“Hm?” He mumbled, popping away from his brooding for a short moment. “I’ve already talked to Mr. Perko here,” Mike said with a nod to Glenn’s direction “And he’s more than willingly to achieve Ms. Hooper’s standard to make you... um, comfortable." ****

“Mike, I’m sure Mr. Perko will do fine _attempting_ such, but I will not settle with an inexperienced doctor that bought his way through medical school.” Sherlock stated, effectively overlooking the duo’s dropping jaws. “I will, all the same, consider forgiving this blunder if you immediately return Molly to her position.” Quite pleased with himself, he rested his weight on the back of his feet. Holding his hands tightly together behind himself, he flickered his attention between the two and watched.

Spluttering, Mike’s face drained of colour. “I’m sorry you feel that way, but I can’t do that.” Ever aware of Sherlock’s mouth tightening into a scowl, Mike continued  “Seeing as Molly has already avoided using so much of her vacation time, it has come to a point that I have no say. She has to use it up now or head office will be knocking on my door." Muscles in his right hand clenching, Sherlock dug his fingernails into his palm.

And as if to comfort him, Mike went on to say, “At least she only settled on a week, if headquarters had their way then she would be gone for at least a month.”  ****

Instead, Sherlock was seared by the feeling of utter resentment. It felt as if the whole world was against him, and leaning forward, Sherlock whispered “No” before he left.

 

Door slamming just as loudly as before, already Sherlock fished his phone from his pocket. Not even realizing he dialed the familiar number, the words already poured from his mouth before he could control them, “Get rid of him.”

“And who may that be, Sherlock?” A voice answered, sharpened until only an icy dagger remained. Sherlock despised that voice almost as much as his own, it had followed him throughout his childhood, always nagging while setting boring and confining rules.

Only serving to irritate Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes had quite enough issues of his own to deal with. Europe as they knew it was in turmoil and a war was always happening somewhere, and more importantly, his favourite bakery had changed its recipe for choux à la crème. _A shame really_ , Mycroft thought with a sigh.

“Glenn Perko.” Giving up on finishing the last of this morning’s paperwork before a snack, Mycroft adjusted himself in his chair.

“And for what reason, may I ask?” Grunting, Sherlock felt his mood worsen at his brother’s snoopy ways.

“He's the new pathologist - Molly has been temporarily replaced.” Sherlock couldn’t help by spit out, sudden voice causing a nearby nurse to jump, he paid it no mind.

“Ah, now we come to the reason for the call.” Mycroft hummed, mouth peeling back with an amused smirk.

“Are you willing to assist me or not?” Sherlock asked, begrudging to confess any weakness to his elder sibling. This stage was different, Sherlock was painted into a tight spot, and he needed all the help he could get.

“Oh, younger brother, I am always keeping your best interest at heart.” Ignoring Sherlock’s humourless laugh, Mycroft went on to say, “Whether by keeping an eye open, or banishing those cretins that seem to follow you. If you doubt as much, I would be more than happy to consult Mummy, she is far more capable to confess your woes to.”

“My _woes?!"_

“Ah yes, such tedious problems do seem to arise from goldfish, especially when petty sentiment is involved. Do keep in mind they don’t last long, Sherlock. Meager store bought ones, specifically. Do be safe.” And with that, Sherlock found himself staring at his phone in confusion.

* * *

 

A pair of eyes followed a young woman as she walked down a street. Brown hair being caught in the wind, the locks were laced with rain, which when reflected resembled diamonds.

Unaware of her surroundings, the woman gave a glance every now and then to her wristwatch. Bouncing off of the cheap plastic of the watch, rain coated her body with a biting caress. Bringing her pale orange sweater closer to her body, she tried to fight off the feeling of being sought out. Making sure to toss a glance over her shoulder, she wanted to quell those fears and set her mind at ease.

“I’m going crazy." She whispered to herself, bangs matted as she gave her head a slight shake of dismissal. Looking back down to the puddle riddled street, she hummed. Sound sweet, the ends of the notes hung crookedly in the air for a second. And with this distraction, a shadow approached her.

Boots lightly stepping on the concrete and masked by the weather, it left little sound to warn. Head snapping upwards, she gave the stranger a friendly but automatic smile. “Hello, can I help you?”

****


	4. An Incoming Message

Wincing at the door’s loud jingle, Molly gave a slow glance around the cafe. Finally able to peel back her hood, raindrops dripped onto the wooden floor underfoot, only to form a large puddle. Small, the store seemed to fill up every possible space.

Steps announced with a creaking, Molly carefully made her way to a table huddled in a corner. Opened up by two large windows, the cafe was painted in burnt oranges, contrary to the pale world outside. Chair scraping harshly along the floor, Molly quickly shrugged out of her soaked coat before dropping it onto the lazily laminated table.

Falling into the seat with a groan, she couldn’t help but appreciate how the firmness of the chair dug into her back, cracking with a satisfying suddenness. Silently sitting there, Molly took the time to pause and watch as people hurried about to quench their caffeine fix. Music poured out from the coffeehouse, the sound was built upon hushed whispers and the hum of machines pumping out scalding liquid. Highlighting this, ever so often the door would open, sending a cold breeze that was scented with shriveled autumn leaves, and a freshness that came with rain that oddly smelt of worms. Eyes crinkling with fondness, Molly smiled at the comforting smell of bubbling tea. Reaching for her worn bag, she blushed at the sight of the familiar cat images pressed onto the fabric. Grabbing her phone out of the bag, Molly quickly turned it on.

When she had first received Mary’s directions, Molly had thought she had seen a new text message. Which was odd, as the only people who tried to contact her was either Meena or another hospital board wanting to offer her a job. Those she rejected immediately, not that they weren’t tempting, it was the fact that if Molly pondered it long enough she struggled with accepting it or not. And the majority being in another country wasn’t helping.

14 new message(s) received from: Sherlock Holmes

1 missed call from: Sherlock Holmes

Blinking, Molly’s jaw became slack. “Crap" she muttered under her breath, and began to scroll through the long series of texts.

_We need to talk. SH_

_Let’s meet at St. Barts. SH_

_Molly?  SH_

_Why aren’t you responding? This is quite serious, it involves your vacation. SH_

_How is it that I wasn’t informed? Even Sally knew...  SH_

Blood draining from her face, Molly couldn’t help but wince as the texts became more and more frustrated. She couldn’t look away, somehow she was mesmerized by the shortness of Sherlock Holmes's patience.

_Just met your replacement, Glenn Perko.  This is getting ridiculous, how am I supposed to work with such a man? A child with rheumatoid arthritis could handle a scalpel better.  SH_

_I know you’ll get these, you have nothing better to do. The movies and soggy popcorn in your living room is testament enough for that. SH_

_I broke in, if you didn’t pick up on that. Also, invest in a better lock. SH_

_You need more sugar, I used the last up for a tea. I hope you don’t mind. SH_

_I’m phoning you right now, answer it. SH_

_Where are you?! SH_

_Are you all right? SH_

_Is Mary hiding you away? Figures. No doubt working with John, the lot of them are too nosy for their own good. SH_

_If this is how you want to play, fine. Just realize that there isn’t a place in all of London that I can’t find you, even if you enlist in the help of Mary Watson. Correction, the whole world. I’ll be meeting with you soon, good luck, Dr. Hooper. SH_

Fingers hovering over the keyboard, Molly wondered if she should respond. _He doesn’t deserve an answer_ , a dark part of her thought, _but if I don’t then it’ll make things worse_.

Sighing, Molly peered upwards at the people walking by before she made her move.

_I just turned on my cell, what do you want? I’m fine by the way, thanks for the concern. MH_

_That should tide him over_ , Molly thought as she chewed on her bottom lip anxiously. The response was immediate.

_You avoided the comment on Mary, is she with you? Don’t answer that, it was rhetorical. I need you to analyze the body that just came in, Mr. Perko’s abilities leave much to be desired. SH_

Blood grasping her tongue, Molly concluded that she had bitten her lip open. Paying no attention to the stinging sensation, Molly straightened her back.

_No. You’ll just have to make due. Glenn isn’t too bad, just give him time to get used to you. In the mean time, I’m busy being on vacation. MH_

Mouth twisting with a frown, she couldn’t help but add, _I’ll see you next week. Have a nice day, Sherlock. MH_

 Even if he was being a jerk, Molly wouldn’t allow him to affect her polite manners. Her grandmother would be rolling in her grave if she did that, most likely giving the caretaker quite a scare. Giggling at the thought, Molly shook her head.

_I wasn’t joking when I said I would find you, Molly. Be sure to pass the message along to Mary. SH_

Shutting her cell off, Molly felt her mood actively dampening. _Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to suck out all of the fun of a day_ , Molly gloomily thought. Pushing her chair back, she stood before she made her way to the discoloured counter. Appearing to be as morose as herself, the barista leaned against the wall with an air of judgement. Raising a brow at her, his mouth twitched with a glower.

Briefly taking in the menu hanging above their heads, Molly mumbled “A milky earl grey" aloud, watching as the barista seemed to appraise her even more thoroughly.

Finally nodding, he rambled off to the machines, leaving Molly to awkwardly stand alone.

Bell signalling the door opening, Molly nonchalantly swung her head at the announcement. And to her surprise someone familiar stood in the doorway.

* * *

 

“What do we have?” Greg asked, nose scrunching at the smell that radiated off of the corpse. Unaffected, Dr. Perko leaned closer to the body. “Cause of death is strangulation, done by the assailant's hands. There is bruising around the wrists, so he was bound and most likely conscious while he was killed.” His hand lightly brushed against the milky skin. “From a glance, he’s been dead for a few weeks, but the elements haven’t been kind.”

“Hello?” A voice suddenly called out; smiling with appreciation, Greg motioned towards Dr. Perko, “John, this is Glenn Perko. Molly’s stand in, he’s helping us with the body found in that alleyway.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Dr. Perko.” John said, bending over the body to give the pathologist a firm handshake. Inwardly frowning at the flimsy hold of the other’s hand, John quickly stepped back as he dropped his gaze to the man stiffly laying on the metal slab.

“Er- is his mouth meant to be bulging like that?” He asked, confusion dressing his tone.

“What?” Dr. Perko coughed out, staring long and hard at the corpse’s face. And to the astonishment of everyone in the room, his cheeks were in fact puffed out.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Greg groaned.

Jumping back to life, noisily Dr. Perko, blabbed “Yes of course, right away!”

Inserting a mouth prop into the corpse’s cavity, Dr. Perko clumsily grabbed some tweezers before making his search.

Morgue barbed with tension, all you could do was wait and expect the worse. “Oh,” Dr. Perko whispered, so quietly that both Greg and John leaned forward to hear him better.

“What is it?” Greg asked, watching as a small white square was removed.

Placing it onto a tray, sweat formed droplets on Dr. Perko’s forehead as he began to carefully open the foreign object. “It's-”

“Paper” John cut off, brows creasing as he tilted his head.

Greg looked from John to Dr. Perko, “What does it say?”

Now standing beside the shaking pathologist, John peered over his shoulder and took in the message. Already Greg was phoning Sherlock, this case just became complicated.

* * *

 

“Are you going to stand there all day? Or are you going to give me a hug?”

Smiling despite herself, Molly quietly gave Mary one, “Of course I will!" Releasing the pregnant woman, Molly took her all in, “And might I say you look lovely.”

Laughing, Mary allowed Molly to lead her to their small table before responding “An obvious lie, I feel and look like crap.” Removing her coat from the table, Molly draped it on her chair.

Groaning as she sat down, Mary watched as Molly was just about to do the same.

“A milky earl grey” a gravelly voice declared.

“Oh! Wait here.” Molly squeaked out, pushing her chair back as she darted over to the counter. Head resting on her hand, Mary watched as Molly briefly conversed with the staff. In particular a grouchy man that didn’t hide his dislike for his surroundings, and just as she was about to deduce a few things about his character, Molly made her way over.

Sighing, she sat down and gave Mary her full attention, hands tightly holding a steaming mug. “I hope you don’t mind, but I went ahead and ordered." Waving it off, Mary smiled.

“It’s quite all right, sweetheart. But enough of that, how’s vacation so far?”

Pausing at the sudden shift of topics, Molly pondered the question before answering. “Fine, but things have been... off today.”

“Off?” Mary questioned. Shaking her head, Molly grabbed her phone from her bag. Waiting for it to turn on, she continued.

“Well I wasn’t expecting much today...” She reluctantly admitted, and at the appearance of her Toby filled lock-screen, she arched closer to Mary. “But I got these strange messages from Sherlock.” She revealed,

and with a few swift flicks of her hand she presented her conversation to Mary.

Holding the phone herself, she frowned as she scrolled through.

“What I wanted to know, is what he meant and how he knew we were going out?”

Handing the cell back, Mary leaned back in her chair, face blank, “Well that’s when things get tricky, Molly.”

 


	5. Childhood Sonnets

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light. GregL_

_Who is this? And how did you get this number? SH_

_Bloody hell, Sherlock. It’s Greg. GregL_

_Greg? I don’t know a Greg... SH_

_Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock. GregL_

_Ah. What is it, Gerald? Is the report finally finished? SH_

_Gerald? For fucks sake, Sherlock. My name is Greg, it’s even in my signature! GregL_

_Noted, and tone down the crass behaviour. Why are you sending me poetry, GREG? SH_

_Like I’ve often told John, I’m flattered, but I’m married to my work. SH_

_...... GregL_

_What? SH_

_You know the man we found in that alleyway? Apparently the guy had a message in his mouth, *that* poem. GregL_

_We’re thinking the un-sub left it there, a note for the cops to find. You know, to brag. GregL_

_Ah. SH_

_We’re? SH_

_What? GregL_

_We’re is a contraction of we are. I’m asking who the WE is, Lestrade. Honestly, you’re almost as bad as Anderson. SH_

_Oh. Besides myself, John and Dr. Perko. That’s the guy who’s taking over for Dr. Hooper. GregL_

_I know who he is. SH_

_Did Dr. Perko find this message? SH_

_Ah, no... John pointed out his cheeks were stuffed looking. GregL_

_I figured as much. SH_

_All right, on my way. SH_

Looking up from his cell, Sherlock stared at the long stretch of street before him. After visiting Molly’s humble abode, Sherlock had found himself tracking his pathologist’s movement. Ah- St. Bartholomew’s pathologist. Lucky for him she wandered about like a drunk rhino, leaving behind crumpled leaves, and a faint scent of tart apples, bleach, and daisies. Personally, Sherlock found it intoxicating. Maybe it was the sweet flowers, something that was reminiscent of Molly’s character, or the bitter underlying smell of fruit. _It’s probably all of this bleach_ , he suddenly thought. _Note to self, regardless of smelling clean, Molly presents the risk of odd thoughts, not case related_. _Likely from a sense of high_. _Correct as soon as possible..._

Pressing his tongue against his teeth, he contemplated pursuing Molly and her meeting with Mary, or attending the morgue. Each side had its cons, but Sherlock could always talk with Molly. This case however, had just jumped from a 5 to an 8. That is, if the note was cryptic and didn’t automatically lead to the killer, which was often the case. That, and the faster the case was solved, the less time Sherlock had to spend with Glenn Perko.

Taking that tidbit into consideration, Sherlock felt a breeze of satisfaction lull his mind. The briefer the contact the better, meaning the week would go by faster and everything would be back to its blessed routine. Mouth twitching with as much of a smile as Sherlock he would permit, quickly he spun on his heel, headed in the opposite direction of that street.  

* * *

 

“He deduced it?”

Shrugging her shoulders, Mary gave Molly a smile filled with pity and amusement. “Well, what did you expect? He _is_   Sherlock Holmes.”

“I know,” Molly mumbled, sighing as she stuffed her phone into her bag, zipper noisily sliding shut. “I just wish he was less of a... a robot. Take up a hobby, something that doesn’t involve murders. Like getting a stamp collection, or bee keeping!” She grumbled, lifting her mug to her lips as Mary snorted with laughter.

“Stamp collecting, honestly who does that anymore?” Mary chortled, loud voice catching the attention of a few customers, each sending a glare her way.

“Oh, I knew a guy in uni who did. It can get really competitive, nearly stabbed a freshman with a fork for touching his collection.”

“...Right. Well I don’t think that stamps are Sherlock’s thing.” Mary said, leaning forward to pat Molly’s hand soothingly.

“I guess not.” Molly muttered, a little disappointed that her suggestion was so easily brushed aside.

“But either way, I didn’t think my vacation would bother anyone. Least of all, Sherlock. Even being a creature of habit, I thought he disliked me.”

“I’m sure that’s not it.” Mary said with a frown, “He didn’t try to sabotage you or anything, or in your friend’s case, stab you with a fork." Giggling at that, reluctantly Molly found herself smiling. She had been doing that more recently. 

“I suppose you’re right.”

Sniffing in false offense, Mary flashed her companion a confident smirk, “Of course I’m bloody right. Now wait here, I have to find a Godforsaken loo in this place.”

Getting to her feet, Mary shed her coat and hung it from her chair, a twin to Molly’s. Giving her a thumbs up, quickly the pregnant blonde ran off, easily dodging the thrown elbows and split coffee that seemed a more daunting threat to Molly.

Settling back into her chair, there she sat alone. Ever so often, taking a generous sip from her mug, welcoming the scalding heat that scraped at her throat. Chest warmed with the feeling, the chill that lingered within the cafe was now avoidable. And yet, Molly began to chew on her bottom lip, fruity aftertaste from the tea barely a thought. Pain slapping the bottom portion of her face, Molly buckled over, hair curtaining her distressed reaction as she raised a nervous hand to her lip. As light as she could, she trailed her pointer finger along the soft surface, feeling for anything odd. Meeting a warm liquid, immediately she realized she had bitten through that lip cut.

Throbbing with pain, the cut was thankfully too shallow for any stitches or glue. “Shit.” She whispered, and forcing herself to stand, held a hand against the wound as she stumbled to the opposite corner of the cafe. With far less grace than Mary, she somehow managed it, only apologizing three times as she bumped into others. A new record in her books.

And just as she had seen when she first entered, placed on a table was a neat pile of tissues. Grabbing a handful, she put some in her pocket for later and applied a single one to her lip.

Stuck to the bulletin board was a series of flyers, skimming over them as the blood dried, Molly’s curiosity was piqued. Ranging from babysitting to senior swimming lessons, each paper was overlapped with one another, desperate to get any form of attention. A particular message caught Molly’s eye, the elegant writing sprawled on a cinnamon shade of paper.

 

_Come and participate at Caffeine Days’ very own, Poetry Night!_

_Everyone is invited, but be sure to check out the rules before you present your piece._

_'They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.'_

 

Definitely intrigued, Molly quickly ripped the paper from the board and placed the scrap in her pants. “Now where do you find these rules?” She mumbled, eyes turning back to the staff.

* * *

  ****

“Move.” Sherlock ordered, causing Glenn Perko to jump aside, nervously wringing his hands together. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock breathed in steadily.

With hazel green eyes, it was apparent that Glenn was a womanizer. He didn’t have to be a P.E teacher to catch the attention of the fairer sex; no, he was _good_. Pampered until he held his head up high and puffed out his chest, Glenn stunk of confidence. The men surrounding him, however, just happened to be far superior. Even Lestrade was known to be a steady raft in a sea of chaos - intelligence to solve a case notwithstanding. Molly would have been a goner, no doubt stuttering and causing workplace conflict to build up.

Without his innocent doctor facade, Glenn Perko was just another snake in the grass, ready to clamp his jaws on the mouse... A mouse like Molly.

This wasn’t the time nor place, he would deal with him later. Shifting his gaze from Glenn, instead he stared at the man covered in a white sheet.

Tan, he wasn’t a resident of the United Kingdom. Most likely here for travel, or recently moved. Deep set brows complimented stress lines etched beside his sunken eyes. Black hair coming out in tufts, the corpse smelt of mud and death.  “Did you trace him back anywhere?” He asked, deep voice slicing the silence neatly.

“No, there wasn’t any cards. But we're looking around criminal records, maybe we'll find a match.”

“I doubt you will. He’s clearly not from around here, check around for news in Mediterranean countries. Stressing Spain, Italy, or Turkey, maybe a concerned family member making a statement to some airports.”

Blinking, Greg scowled as he met Sherlock’s focus, “Sherlock, if this turns out international than this isn’t my division.”

“Of course it’ll be,” Sherlock sighed with irritation, “The body was found in your alleyway, and obviously they’ll want me on the case." Clearing his throat before he went on to say, “So naturally I’ll call on you to work with me, otherwise they’ll have to solve it themselves.”

Smiling brightly with surprise, Greg bounded over to Sherlock’s side, hand tightly gripping Sherlock’s in a shake. Wincing at the bone crushing hold, there he stood, back rigid as the force of Lestrade’s movement had Sherlock’s brain rattling in his skull. Prying his fingers away, he awkwardly shifted this attention elsewhere. Anywhere. “Right, now that’s over with. The note?”

“Oh, yes of course!” Glenn coughed, scrambling to grab the tray. Back turned to the trio, the replacement pathologist was unaware that the lot shared a knowing look. Well, more of Sherlock and John then Lestrade, he was far too busy smiling at the concept that Sherlock needed _him_.

Unceremoniously dumping the tray on the corpse, using the stiff body as a makeshift table, Glenn lightly picked up the stained paper.

Annoyance flashing across his features, Sherlock wordlessly accepted the pair of gloves handed to him by John. Latex snapping into place, the note was brought up to icy eyes.

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

“Well?”

“It is a poem.” Sherlock stated, tossing the message to the tray.

“Oh, we didn’t get that.” John drawled, sarcasm dripping from his tone.

Sherlock glared at him, “Obviously our killer wants to communicate through this message, perhaps the killing itself wasn’t meant as an escape, but a proclamation of their views.”

“Oh, great. Of course I’d be the one to get a killer wanting to be the world’s newest activist. Can we cross Save the Whales off the list, Sherlock? Or even WWF?”

“Laugh as you will, detective. This killer wants to say something, and they aren’t afraid of torturing to do so. The question is _where_ , and _why?_ As for the poem, if memory serves correctly, as it often does it my case... Then it is by Robert Frost.”

“And you're familiar with his works?” John asked, brow raising with disbelief.

Chin tilting up in defiance, Sherlock gave an equal stare in John’s direction, “Yes, in fact I am. I read through his collection quite thoroughly as a child, they were enjoyable.” Mouth quirking, Sherlock added, “A particular favourite of mine was _Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening_ , it held a certain... dark mystery to it...”

“Christ save us,” Lestrade muttered, teeth flashing with a grimace as he glanced to Sherlock and the body. “This isn’t some Poetry club, and we’re certainly not going to form one. We need to discuss the actual reason for being here-”

“Yes, yes. The body,” Sherlock waved off, ignoring the blistering look Lestrade sent his way. “The title is lost to me for the moment, but it doesn’t matter. The meaning is the true key...” Taking up to pacing around the morgue, Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, eyebrows drawn into a frown.

“There can be multiple interpretations for this poem and its use, but as Lestrade pointed out, we don’t have the time. So let’s skip to the end, shall we?”

Spinning abruptly to face the others, a false smile was stretched across Sherlock’s face, almost painfully. “Our killer has now begun the process of becoming acquainted with the night, a metaphor for his slaying. The rain? Now that is tricky, but it doesn’t matter. The main focus is the line: _I have outwalked the furthest city light_ ; our killer is turning his back on society and its restrictions.”

“So they’ll strike again?” John piped in, face troubled.

“Yes. That wasn’t the full poem, no doubt you’ll be finding more corpses, Lestrade.”

"Lovely" the detective sighed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Be sure to check out my other works. :-)  
> -BookishTea


	6. Murder Is 50% Off

_7:39 PM_

As Molly walked down a sodden street, she contemplated the piece of paper in her bag. Earlier that morning at the cafe, she had asked a friendly barista about the advertisement and its rules. They seemed simple enough.

“ _With using another’s poem, be sure to credit the author or mention the title. It’s encouraged to share your own, but keep in mind if there’s a theme that day. If you have a question for the presenter, ask them afterwards. Luckily tonight is Free-for-all, so you can perform whatever.”_

_"Anything?” Molly asked with a frown._

_“Anything,” the barista responded with a weary smile, a little irritated at being cut off. “That, and you get 50% off on your second drink, well, if you share a piece_.”

Bell giving a harsh jingle, it announced the opening of the cafe’s red door to the rest of its patrons. Only a handful looked up from their drinks, the majority of the crowd being a mess of slumped bodies and wrinkled business suits. Door slamming shut behind her, Molly made her way over to the counter, eyeing the same barista from before.

“Excuse me,” she interrupted, the corners of her mouth tugging into a shy smile. “Where do we perform for, um, Poetry Night?”

The barista’s grey eyes narrowing, he paused in wiping the sticky counter.  ****

Dark brown hair slicked back, the barista reminded Molly of a certain man she once dated. Molly grimaced at the comparison. _I should really stop measuring a sleep deprived man to an insane criminal mastermind_ , Molly thought.

“What’s the time?” He asked, his fed up voice having Molly blinking with surprise. Glancing to a hanging clock, she cleared her throat.

“Um, 7:41?”

“Right, and performing doesn’t start until 7:55.”

“Uh...”

“Give her a break, Than. Obviously she’s a newbie.”

Molly jumped at the abruptness of someone joining their rather one-sided conversion. Turning away from the recently named Than, Molly faced the owner of the sultry voice. Sun kissed skin was framed by sharp cheekbones and noble lines. 

“Hello, I’m Raphel.” He greeted, face cracked open with a welcoming grin.

“Molly.” She said, a touch breathless. Smiling at that, Raphel calmly offered his hand in a shake. Molly gulped down the saliva that filled her mouth, and tried to discreetly wipe her hands against her legs. Praying her hand wasn’t as sweaty as it felt, she raised it. ****

Clasping it tightly within his own, Raphel didn’t appear to notice and even gave it a lingering peck. Molly giggled at that, her face flushing brightly.

“Molly, I know we just met, but would you join me for a tea? I could show you around, and even teach you the ropes.”

Without even thinking, Molly found herself nodding excitedly. Than snorted in disgust, lips dragging back with a sneer.

“Perfect! Then it’s settled.”

* * *

 

Humming quietly under her breath, Agatha L. Dara continued on with her route. The grocer had taken longer then she would have liked with her bags, and even if the journey to home was twenty minutes away it still felt like ages.

Pausing near a street lamp, Agatha placed a steadying hand on the cool metal. Wrinkled face crinkling with vexation when she looked up to the sky, rain always did put her off. Thankfully it had stopped for now, but by the twitch her hip gave, the weather was bound to act up soon.

“This rain does nothing but make everything smell like worms and ruin my hairdo.”

Clucking her tongue, Agatha patted the curled hair, searching for any strays sticking up. All she had to do was give Harriet a few bottles of wine, the good kind, and now she had a new and fashionable style. She had been hesitant to dye it a pale pink, but somehow Harriet’s slurred assurance had worked. And she was right, it did suit her.

Fifty-six years, and still the pair were inseparable. And yet Agatha would be damned if Harriet outlived her, if it continued like this, Agatha would get rid of the old bat herself. ****

Pushing off of the lamp, Agatha hobbled over to cross the street. Halfway over the road, a stout car came squealing to a stop, barely missing her.

“What the hell are you doing?!” A man yelled from inside, angrily honking his car. Sniffing at the sound, Agatha flashed him her middle finger and continued on. Taking a shortcut through an alleyway, Agatha ignored the slimy stone walls and ventured into the labyrinth. She was already sweating, make things worse, her hip began to act up again. Agatha’s breath coming out in short huffs, she came to a halt once more.

Pressing a liver spotted hand to her forehead, Agatha wished the dizziness would disappear. Scowling at her surroundings, she wondered where the hell she was and why it was so dirty here.

“Animals.” She said with a snort, face twisting like she had tasted something bitter. Always so disgusting and filthy. 

Picking apart the lane, Agatha finally spotted it.

Thrown near a gritty dumpster, a garbage bag lazily slumped, something that would have been casually dismissed by anyone else. But Agatha always did have a critical eye for half-assed jobs. The dark polyethylene was nibbled away, done by a starving creature. Stepping for a closer look, Agatha placed a hand over her nose, the smell was nauseating. It wasn’t the typical aroma of rotten food, instead it was of decomposing flesh.

“Oh dear lord.”

The next second was rushed away by Agatha screaming, the sound bouncing off the walls and into the opened streets.

* * *

 

“So you’re not performing tonight?”

“No, I’m more thrilled to listen to others.” Raphel laughed, his hands sliding onto the table and reached for Molly’s.

“And what about you? Do you plan on performing tonight?”

Her heart was pounding much too loudly, Molly struggled to calm it before answering, “No, I’m _learning_. Remember?”

Raphel’s smile increased with that, finger rubbing against the softness of Molly’s palm.

“We have a while, and I’d love to show you around.”

“Now you'll show me?” Molly laughed, taking her hands away, “Then what has this been?”

He didn’t comment on that, or Molly withdrawing from his touch.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you do? For work, I mean.”

“Oh.” Molly froze, this was it. She’d tell him her job and then he’d get grossed out, it happened often with all her other dates. Not like this was a date, but Molly was starting to want it to be.

The expectation on Raphel’s beautiful face had her continuing despite herself, the words just slipping out.

“I, uh, work at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.”

“A nurse?”

Molly shook her head, slightly irritated to only being considered a nurse and not a doctor.

“No, I’m a specialist registrar at the morgue. I sometimes cut up the dead bodies and measure them.” She meant to be joking, instead it came out strained and flustered. “That doesn’t gross you out?” She asked, pitch high as she looked anywhere but at him.

“No, of course not!”

Molly glanced back, caught off guard when he leaned forward.

“On the contrary, I find the idea fascinating.”

* * *

 

“I don’t get it, Mrs. Hudson.”

“A first.” The elderly woman piped in, amused when Sherlock glowered at her.

“Do try to be serious. What does she want? To relax? She is more than capable at doing that after work, clearly without this need for an outlandish vacation.”

“Did you try telling her?”

“Oh, I did.” Sherlock mumbled, sniffing at the response he’d gotten from his pathologist- er, _the_ pathologist. “And yet she refuses to assist me on the case.”

“I'm not talking about working. Honestly, the lot of you have no sense.” Mrs. Hudson tsked, climbing from her spot on the worn down couch and made her way to the kitchen.

“What are you going on about?”

“You miss her.” She called out, stacking the dirty dishes into neat piles.

“Not you too, John was under the same foolish notions.” Sherlock groaned, he felt a headache coming on.

“Maybe he had a point? You seem to be pretty reliant on Molly for things.”

“Of course not!”

“It doesn’t seem that way, dear. Let Molly live, she may even find some arm candy while she’s at it.” Mrs. Hudson chortled, winking slyly at the sulking detective.

“Let’s be realistic, Mrs. Hudson. Unlike you, Molly isn’t tempted by flings. She desires a long term relationship, something that will boringly lead into marriage. No doubt she put them off when she pursued her medical career, and now that she’s successful, she wants to pass down her genetics.”

Rolling his eyes when Mrs. Hudson rose a brow at him, Sherlock continued. “That’s hard to do, seeing as the average man isn’t intrigued in corpses, a shame really. In conclusion, I doubt she’ll attract anyone, at least worthy of her mind.”

* * *

 

“...Really?” Molly said, expression scratched with doubt.

“Yes, yes.” Raphel rapidly nodded, his accent slipping in for a moment.

“That’s a curious flare you have, Raphel.”

“Ah, I’m from Israel.”

“Israel? You don’t look like an Israeli. N-not that you’re lying! I just, er...”

“It’s quite alright Molly!” Raphel cut off with a laugh, grinning at the sight of Molly a blistering shade of red. ** ******

“And you would be correct to assume so, I was born in Spain. My parents had a flourish for archeology, and travelled to Israel and Egypt. Strung along, I developed a passion for it as well.”

“Did you follow in their footsteps?” Molly asked, inadvertently finding herself enthralled in this conversation.  

“Somewhat, I’m a paleontologist.” ****

“A paleontologist? That’s amazing! What about your parents?”

“They were more inclined to ancient civilizations, and still are. I can’t seem to remove them from excavation sites.” Raphel chuckled, getting a faraway look in his eyes, but nonetheless a fond one. “I’m actually here on business, I’m doing a bit of a deal with one of my colleagues. He runs the Natural History Museum, and he's allowing me to study a specimen in exchange for one of my own finds.”

Whistling lowly in delight, Molly rested her head on her knuckle. “It sounds incredible, Raphel. The things you must record and experience!”

“It isn’t as captivating as it sounds, and certainly not what Jurassic Park makes it out to be.”

Tugging a strand of hair behind her ear, Molly was overcome with the desire to laugh and she was quickly joined by Raphel.

“But enough about me.” Raphel peered down at his wristwatch, “Poetry night is about to begin.” And following his lead, Molly jumped to her feet, eager to spend the rest of her afternoon with this mysterious man.

 


	7. Rotten Orange Sweaters

Attached to the cafe was a separate room, something that caused Molly to get butterflies in her belly before she actually stepped inside. It was certainly larger than the cafe itself, and instead of worn down wood it was mismatched bricks. With no windows, the only thing that lit up the room was a series of spotlights that hung from the rustic ceiling. Already people were filing inside, anxious to grab any table they could. And much like the ones in the actual cafe, they were fearfully small.

Roughly Molly counted fourteen in total, and yet each was turned towards a stage pressed against the opposite wall. With a backdrop of seemingly always changing art, the female barista from before eagerly clasped a microphone.

“Alright everyone, please hurry up and sit down.”

Eyes quickly searching for a quiet table, Molly was surprised when Raphel suddenly yanked her to the side.

“What?” She whispered roughly, her arm slightly hurting from the force. And that’s when she saw it, tucked in the left corner was an unoccupied table. Perfect.

* * *

  ****

When Sherlock arrived on the scene, already there was police tape everywhere. Idiots.

Hurriedly collecting as much evidence as they could, officers donned in blue SOCO suits milled about. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he blindly grabbed the back of an officer, pulling her to him.

“Where’s Lestrade?”

Freckled and young, the officer blinked for a moment, obviously straight out of the academy.

“Er, Detective Inspector--”

“Where?” Sherlock hissed, impatient with this pointless foolishness.

Jolting at Sherlock’s anger, the officer shriveled away from his touch before stammering “I-interviewing A-agtha Dara.”

“Who?”

“S-she found the, er, body, sir. They should be down a little further, but you should really be wearing a suit.”

Eyes boring into hers, Sherlock merely stared. Realizing that she possibly lectured one of her superiors on a basic rule, or he at least appeared to be a high up, she paled considerably.

Sherlock sighed when she began to ramble, profusely apologizing and begging her pardon. Releasing his hold on her suit, quickly Sherlock walked off to find Lestrade. Surely his headache was going to worsen if the week continued on like this, and as if to respond, his temple gave a painful throb. 

And the young officer was quite right, not even forty seconds worth of walking, and there Lestrade was. The silver haired detective had his hands lazily stuffed into his pockets and a expression of displeasure on his face. Something that wasn’t really a big surprise for Sherlock, as his colleague was standing beside the daft Sally Donovan. The pair of officers appeared to be questioning an elderly woman with a curious shade of pink hair, a sly smile on her face despite her surroundings. Agatha Dara?

Muting his footsteps, Sherlock stalked forward, keen to listen to this conversation.

“Oh, I am certainly glad for the rescue.”

“It was nothing, ma'dam. Now if you’re all right, I have a-”

“Now that you mention it, I am feeling a bit faint...” Agatha cooed, suddenly leaning against Lestrade for support, a wrinkled hand rubbing at his arm affectionately.

Lestrade was looking less than happy, running a hand through his hair in agitation. In desperate need of help, he peered off to Sally. Loving the advantage she held over her partner, Sally merely smiled in return, her laughter barely held back.

“If you’re not feeling well, you could always check in with the paramedics.”

“You’re really kind, sir. Maybe you could even carry her there?” Sally giggled, only flinching when Lestrade glared at her over the senior’s head.

“Ooh, yes. I’m sure you’re very strong. What’s your title? Detective Inspector? I like a man with ambition, it can really rile me up!”

Fed up with this conversation and Sally’s now escaping laughter, Sherlock made his presence known by loudly clearing his throat. Everything went quiet as the trio was startled by the sound, giving Sherlock differing reactions. Whilst Lestrade was relieved, no doubt fearing being groped by the clingy widow, Sally was immediately baring her teeth with a grimace.

“Even with the constant smell of death on his coat? Unlike yourself, he doesn’t get excited by indecently exposing himself. Clearly you aren’t a suited match.”

“H-how did  you know that?”

“Indecently exposing?!”

Sherlock snorted at the response, outright ignoring Sally and her mixed emotions. She was caught up in being amused by the elder’s exotic past, or simply hating Sherlock.

“Obviously. Mrs. Dara here has been arrested on several accounts of flashing bystanders...” Breaking off, Sherlock squinted faintly, "Usually at... amusement parks...? Interesting.”

“That’s slander! I can sue you!” Agatha seethed, blushing angrily.

“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock said mockingly, "if we're done here, the body? Come on, Lestrade. We don't have all day."

"Oh, right!" Lestrade mumbled, shaking his head as he pulled himself from this strange situation. Forcefully removing Agatha's claw-like hands from his person, he walked up to Sherlock.

"We've already shipped it off, you know, with the rain. But the dump-site is around this bend, follow me."

Nodding his head in acceptance, Sherlock briskly followed Lestrade, leaving behind both Sally and Agatha to stew in their emotions.

* * *

  ****

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat_

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

 

He looked away from the piece of paper, admiring the tiresome labour that evolved into his work. The crisp sheet was a delicate contrast to his desk, something carved from dark walnut wood. The planning was tedious, but it was worth it in the end. Sliding his gaze from the paper, he smiled at the piles of similar articles. 

After briefly checking his watch, he gave a curt nod. It's time. Climbing out of his chair, he swiftly stepped away from the desk, his back giving a large crack as he stretched. A sigh of delight escaped his lips, a sound that he'd only permit himself in the comfort of privacy. _She_ would have certainly been repulsed, shrieking at his pleasure, even if it didn't involve her. But it did, and as he opened the door across from his room, felicity was boiling over inside his very being.

Creak.

Tied spread eagle to a bed was Tiffany, a polite brunette with a fiery temper. Even with such innocent and rather plain features, she still wasn't exempted from taking the frustrations of her day out on others. That was partially why he choose her, the tortured prisoner vibe that wafted off of her was quite becoming. That orange sweater from before was removed, neatly cut away from her trembling body. The involuntary movement caused Tiffany to become nicked in a couple of places, but that couldn't be helped. And it was a bit of a shame, really.

She had just lifted her head at the door opening, dirtied face flinching before she let out a muffled wail. 

"Enough of that."

The sound increased, repulsion striking at her core. 

Shushing Tiffany as she choked on a stained rag, he stepped to her side, a hand lightly brushing back hair strands. 

"You won't have to wait much longer," he smoothed the unruly locks, "I'm almost done with you."

Tiffany yanked on her bonds, grunting in pain as it dug into her cuts. She glared at him through slitted eyes, tears already glazing the lovely browns. He ignored them, once again focusing on her figure. The blanket he had brought her didn't do much good, the scratchy piece of material currently twirled around her legs. 

"Music I heard with you was more than music,

And bread I broke with you was more than bread.."

He began, before he half sat on the bed his hands slowly lowered from Tiffany's head to her neck.

"Now that I am without you, all is desolate..."

He squeezed, Tiffany thrashing against the restraints as her life drained away.

"All that was once so beautiful is dead."

A pained gurgle clawed its way out of Tiffany, spit dripping from her mouth as her lips parted.

* * *

 

"First up, Abi Keir."

Molly clapped encouragingly, watching as a small woman climbed onto the stage. Accepting the microphone from the barista, she nervously turned to the audience. Her blonde hair was extremely curly, nearly hiding all of her face.

"Hi, I'm obviously Abi, and I'll be performing an original piece. It's just, uh called Bird Nest, so yeah..."

Molly glanced to Raphel, raising a brow in question. Raphel shrugged. 

Clearing her throat, Abi exhaled before she started, cutting through the silence with a loud...

"Squaaa!!!"

The audience flinched at the shriek.

"I am a bird,

chick that is raised. 

Raised!... By my mother,

mother cut in half, where is my fath-"

Molly shifted in her seat, whispering to Raphel "Is it always like this?"

"Sometimes." He whispered back.

"Worms!

When will it be my turn,

to eat the can of worms?

Squaaa!!!"

Everyone flinched again, mumbling under their breaths.

"I am a.... bird. Thank you."

 

Abi handed the mic back to the barista, shuffling off stage. The barista gave an awkward laugh, saying "Let's give it up for Abi!" Glancing around the room, Molly snapped her fingers, relieved when others joined in. "Okay! Now here's our next presenter, who's um... sorry, what was your name again?"

"Ethan."

"Right, here's Ethan and his piece!" She passed the mic to the bloke, who immediately sniffled into it. 

"Uh, this is called, My Hot Therapist... so.."

"Oh no" Molly mumbled, watching the scene unfold in front of her in horror. 

 

 

 


	8. Riddling Teeth

_8:23 PM_

 

The dank alley had an abrupt end and left one to be surrounded by crumpled boxes, and rubbish. Sherlock crinkled his nose at the scent of spoiled food, at this moment wishing his sensitive nose was dulled.

_Black Cardamon? Hm. Someone recently went to the Dragon’s Pearl, three blocks away t-_

“Alright, here it is.”

The remains of the puddle of blood was almost non-existent, already the rain was washing it away. Traces of DNA left behind were going to be impossible to gather, this killer was having the time of of their life.

“Have you gathered anything?”

“Nothing useful. But we’re trying.”

“Try harder.”

Lestrade sucked in his breath, the desire to punch Sherlock festered under his skin. He wanted to claw it out, show it to him.

Sherlock hummed suddenly, water tickling his face as he looked around.

“What’s your opinion?”

“I...  _What?_ "

“On this.” Sherlock sighed and stepped close to Lestrade. He was close enough that a startling heat radiated off of him, shamefully the inspector leaned forward. A clear blue swirled in a mania of frustration and clarity. Sleek in his response, Sherlock mashed his teeth together until they rung out like silver bells.

"Would you consider this very sad?"

Lestrade awkwardly reached out to Sherlock, patting him simply on the arm. This reaction was unexpected, it seemed like an emotional call for help. It'd be best to tell John about this, a emotive Sherlock was new territory. And he certainly didn't want to deal with him.

 _Maybe it's this whole Molly business?_ Lestrade thought with a knowing smile.

"Sure, Sherlock. There's nothing wrong with letting your feelings out, it's natural."

"What are you going on about? Surely Mrs. Dara didn't impair your intelligence this badly? Or what little is left of it, anyway. I was under the impression that you preferred younger and mature women, someone to soften the blow of your hectic life."

Lestrade shifted on his feet as he coughed. His ears burned. "This isn't about me, the both of us know it. Look, just explain things to Molly."

Sherlock blinked in surprise, leaning unconsciously backwards. A weight swam up to his throat, and despite his better judgement, he spat out what had been plaguing his mind.

"I have, yet she is still oblivious." He fingered the cell in his pocket. "She is needed more than ever, but she..."

"It's hard, Sherlock, but you need to continue on. Tell Molly how badly you need her, she _is_ very pretty."

"Of co- What _nonsense_ are you spouting, Lestrade?"

"Nonsense?! I'm helping you realize your feelings for Molly, something you're obviously sad about!"

"Sad?! I'm not sad over Molly Hooper?!"

Lestrade guffawed in disbelief, his jaw slack. "You just asked me if this was considered sad!"

"Of course I did, Lestrade." Sherlock snorted, "We're meant to be catching a killer, something which I am doing alone. Now, if you're quite done being an old hen, you'd take into consideration the stanza that is surely to be left behind..

I have looked down the _saddest_ city lane.

I have passed by the watchman on his beat.

And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain."

"Oh."

"Yes, _oh_."

* * *

 

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes! I can't thank you enough for...  _this_." She stressed the word by waving her hand, a nervous smile flickered across her face. 

Raphel sighed as he watched Molly quickly don her coat, "You don't have to leave now, we can still talk."

 

"No, I'm fine." She laughed. It wasn't convincing.

"Can I at least walk you home? It's getting pretty late out there."

"I..." she started, watching as Raphel's smile slowly disappeared.

"...I'd love that."

* * *

 

Glenn mumbled a curse as he leaned backwards, a hand pressed into his side. Work here was stressful, it didn't help that the hours were long and hard. He was starting to miss his old job, at least there he didn't have to deal with insane detectives. 

"Long night?"

Glenn turned away from the vending machine, momentarily ignoring the hiss of coffee filling his styrofoam coffee cup. A short woman stood before him, short dress crinkled from a tiring shift. He looked her up and down before removing his hand from his side, smiling easily.

"You can say that, Miss...?"

The woman laughed, a comforting sound. If Glenn was honest she was a bit plain, but that didn't mean she didn't have certain... features. He chuckled to himself as he stepped towards the young woman running a hand through his blonde hair.

"How would you like going to di-"

"Please excuse this announcement, a Mr. Perko is needed immediately in the mortuary." The P.A. system announced.

"For fucks sake!" Glenn screamed in frustration. The sudden yell had the woman scrambling back in fright, her heels clacking loudly against the shiny floor. Glenn immediately bit his tongue, ignoring the pain as he raised a hand after her.

 _Great job, Glenn. Scare off the closest you've come to action in this hospital_. The vending machine buzzed as the cup was finally full, the scent of freshly brewed coffee in the sterile air. He grabbed it, shuddering as the liquid tar burnt his throat on the way down.

 _Let's just hope the corpse is good looking, and I'm the only one working the graveyard shift._ Glenn sighed as he came back up for air, crushing the styrofoam before tossing it into the nearest trashcan.

* * *

 

"I really enjoyed our time together," Raphel admitted, "even if it wasn't under the best of circumstances."

"What?" Molly asked.

"Than. He can be touchy at times, but he's valuable."

Pretending that she knew what he was talking about the whole time, Molly waved it off with a laugh. It rang out into the cool night, settling like fog on London's streets.

"Oh it's fine, I didn't take it personally. I once worked as a part-time waitress when I was in Uni, trust me, I know how cranky you can be."

Raphel studied her for a moment, casually walking by her side. A couple of minutes passed before he finally spoke again, "I have a question for you."

Molly fidgeted as she pulled her jacket closer to her body, hoping it was the weather that caused her to shiver. 

"What is it?'

He paused, making Molly's heart squeeze. "Would you have dinner with me?"

"I..." She started, at a loss for words. Things like this never happened to her, not after Tom. She was tempted to say no, simply out of fear. Fear that this wouldn't work. The words were there, curdling her stomach with regret already. When Raphel suddenly lifted his arm up, it had Molly flinching.

A sleek taxi pulled up to the curb in front of them, gleaming from the afternoon's rain. She almost didn't see it, the black metal blending perfectly into the night. He gave her a shy glance, adorned in a cautious smile.

Her heart reached out for him, crooning when he opened the taxi's door for her.  _One date couldn't hurt, could it?_ "It's a date, Raphel."

That tentative smile bloomed into a grin, shining brightly like a star. "It's settled then!" He said in satisfaction, momentarily brushing a hand against hers.

_He wouldn't hurt a fly..._

 

After exchanging pleasant goodbyes, both went their separate ways. Molly spent her short ride contemplating her upcoming dates, if Raphel was going to turn out as promising as he appeared. She certainly hoped so. Thoughts filled with the handsome paleontologist, St. Bartholomew's vacationing pathologist returned home with her heart and chin held up high. 

* * *

 

When Glenn stormed into the morgue, he didn't expect to find Sherlock engaged in a conversation with John. Still, he was determined to show them that he wasn't afraid. And certainly not of Sherlock bleeding Holmes.

Breathing in deeply, he promised himself to not stutter this time. "What do you want?" He asked, stance stiff and steady. This caught the attention of Sherlock, immediately his gaze was fixed on him.

The silence crippled Glenn, and as the minutes ticked away, he found himself shifting his weight. Inevitable those glaciers found him, drowning any of the insults he pondered over in the canteen.

"Stop being an idiot, and take out the bodies."

"I-"

"Now." 

He was ashamed to admit it, but Glenn scrambled for the morgue drawers. With his heart pounding in his ears, Glenn pulled out the two bodies. Like a beaten dog, Glenn turned back to Sherlock, waiting for another order.

Glenn wouldn't be disappointed, as Sherlock growled out, "Leave us."

Gulping as the roof of his mouth itched, Glenn avoided his gaze as he forced out, "B-but I'm not supposed to leave you alone with-"

"Did I stutter?"

The question threw Glenn off, and limply he shook his head. "Then get the hell out, and just be glad you aren't in those drawers."

He didn't wait any longer to flee, maggots of trepidation burrowing into his bowels.

 

"You didn't have to be so hard on him, Sherlock."

"Oh please, you wouldn't be saying that if you paid attention." Sherlock said with a dark laugh, curls bouncing as he shook his head.

"Then enlighten me." John sighed, leaning against a counter as he rose a brow. 

"Let's just say, we were lucky to show up when we did."

"...What?"

"Forget about it, I'm more concerned with this killer."

 


	9. It's All Subjective

_The next day, 7:13 AM_

 

Sleep is such a fickle thing, arriving when you least expect it to. Thankfully for Molly, it appeared when she craved it last night.

It did well to erase previous troubles, so when she awoke she was perfectly refreshed. Humming lightly under her breath, she fluttered her eyelashes against the current of light streaming into her room.

"Well rested are we?"

Molly's eyes popped open, heartbeat caged in her throat like a tiny bird.

There he sat, looking on the verge of something curious. Long pale fingers drummed along the arm of her chair, creating a symphony of emotions. She didn't let her eyes wander for too long, knowing she'd be caught in this web.

But at that moment Raphel's face flashed inside her thoughts. That attractive Spanish caramel skin had her flinching, and a sense of guilt overcame her. She didn't know why, but she doubted she'd ever would.

Sherlock seemed to be in the same boat as her, furrowing his brow at her reaction. Anger he expected, and surely surprise. But this? No, not this.

"What do you want, Sherlock?"

"I.." He started, and to his surprise, found himself at a loss. Why was he here?

He leaned back, almost like he was escaping the question. Blue not meeting brown, they swirled with the philosophical meaning of things. Something felt _off_ , between them. Like a string had been cut with a rusty pair of scissors, jagged and utterly lacking etiquette.

He spared her another glance, changing gears.

She looked flustered in an opposite sense than he was used to, like she was trying desperately to not boast. To spare not only his, but her own sentiment... Yes, that's it! _Sentiment!_

"Molly, you went out last night."

The brunette across from him said nothing, favouring to shift her weight. Unknowingly sliding further under the covers, hiding her wrinkled clothes.

Sherlock: 1    Molly: 0

"And you met someone... well, other than Mary." A glance to the side, followed shortly by colouring of both the cheeks and ears.

"A male, obviously well knowledgeable about the opposite sex." 

Sherlock: 2    Molly: 0

Molly felt her chest swell with anger, eyes narrowing into slits as she glared at her unwanted visitor. Before she could stop and think, something she'd regret later, she found herself blurting out a series of words.

"And how would you know that, Sherlock?! Last time I checked you had better things to do than interrogate me, like find a bloody killer!"

Sherlock stood up so suddenly, it startled both Molly and Toby, the latter which was attempting to sleep by his owner's feet. He walked right up to her bedside, a figure of shadow and barely veiled rage. Sherlock leaned close, eyes not leaving her's as he sniffed her.

"You reek of leather and freshly cut grass, a favourite for those seeking female company. Your _friend_ , fits those specifics."

"H-how are you sure it's a man? Maybe I like the smell, did you ever consider that?" She snapped.

" _Please_ , you hate strong scents. Which is natural, women have keener noses than males. Which you already knew... And I'm already accustomed to your scent."

Molly crinkled her nose, uncertain if she should feel flattered or put off with this new information. It didn't matter, as Sherlock was already prattling away.

"You haven't mentioned a date, neither to myself." Molly opened her mouth to object, "Nor Mary, seeing as John wasn't informed of such. So this can only mean that the encounter was unexpected." She closed her mouth. "Next, either this _man_   was drenched in this cologne. Unlikely, might I add. Or he invaded your personal space and was quite the sweet talker, which I'm leaning more towards, seeing as you were so easy to defend his honour."

Grumbling under her breath, Molly stewed in contempt. "And that brings us back to your original concern, the finding of a killer. Which is precisely why I'm here, so congratulations on finding that one out." Sherlock said with a sneer, returning back to his perch.

Molly let out a loud and exasperated sigh, "Is Mr. Perko so bad to work with?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. He misses important clues, tarnishes any evidence he finds. Not to mention the fact I almost caught him with one of the recent victims."

"Caught him with... Sherlock, what on earth are you talking about? Of course you found him with the corpses, he's a pathologist!"

Sherlock snorted at that, plucking at loose threads from the floral printed chair. "In a different sense, Molly. Glenn Perko was in the act of having coitus with one of the corpses, which might I add, shares an uncanny resemblance with yourself." Silence was unavoidable in every sense.

"What?!" Molly screamed out, disgusted with what had become of her job. A mockery! In her morgue?! "Why wasn't I told?! Does Mike know?!"

"Why so surprised, Molly? Necrophilia is a lot more common then you may believe. Especially with those who have access to corpses. Never understood the appeal myself, but to everyone their own."

"Sherlock!"

_"What?"_

"This isn't okay, you have to do something!"

"My thoughts exactly! He's tampering with the evidence, and is successfully hindering my progress in this case. Now you understand my eagerness to your return."

"I don't give a fuck about your work, Sherlock! I care about someone having _sex_ with the corpses!"

He sniffed at that, once again leaning back. "I'll make sure he never enters another morgue if I must, but I need your assistance on this case. No matter how temporary."

"I.. ugh, fine! Just keep him out of my morgue!"

"I expect you to be ready later today."

He didn't wait for a response, swiftly rising to his feet. With a background of Molly complaining in his ears, Sherlock left with a smile on his lips.

* * *

 

"And here I thought we already had our monthly conversation?"

"Enough of your childish games, Mycroft."

" _Childish?_ Oh my, is Sherlock Holmes finally growing up? Mummy will be so proud, Sherl!"

Without a retort, Sherlock found himself fuming at his brother's smug voice.

"If you're done here, pulled pants down and all, I have work to do."

Mycroft raised his eyes heavenward, questioning Sherlock's motive when he became silent. Still, he continued lazily rolling a ballpoint pen between his fingers.

"I need help." Great. He had switched to the direct approach, lovely.

Despite himself, Mycroft found his heart going out to his sibling. It wasn't often that Sherlock sucked up his pride and begged for assistance. Strangely it wasn't as satisfying as Mycroft expected it to be.

"With what?" Another pause.

"I need you to get rid of Glenn Perko."

"This again, Sherlock I-"

" _Listen_ , Mycroft." And like he said a magic word, both Holmes boys were startled to find Mycroft doing just that, "He's causing trouble with my work, not to mention how he's-"

"Having intercourse with the bodies?"

"How did y-"

"Know? I made sure to check in on your request, I'm not your brother for nothing, Sherlock."

"Well, I need him gone. The faster this case is over with the better."

Mycroft gave a laugh, filled with an unrecognizable emotion. "You aren't getting off that easy, Sherlock. Pay up."

"I don't follow..."

"Of course you do! You hold a fixation on these cases, so there must be a reason why you're so hurried to finish it."

Sherlock exhaled, wishing he had some cigarettes on him.  _Be quick about it, get it over and done with._

"...The latest victim holds a congruence to Mo- Dr. Hooper, and then I find out that she has a new suitor."

"So?"

" _So_ , she reeks of an international cologne. I believe it to be an expensive Spanish product, _la lujuria_."

"Lust?" Mycroft chuckled, "How subtle."

"That's not all. There was black strands of hair on Dr. Hooper's figure, but my greatest concern is if she's a potential victim."

"You honestly believe the pathologist's newest fling is a serial killer?"

"Why not, Jim Moriarty used Dr. Hooper as a means to attack me." Sherlock snapped, keenly aware when silence drowned out Mycroft's voice. Moriarty was still a sore subject between them.

When he finally spoke again, Mycroft's voice was formal but under-toned by a tenseness. 

"You may not be aware of it, _dearest brother_ , but your concerns sound both outlandish and presumptuous. I will heed your claims of consternation with the utmost care, but I can't help but question the outcome. Glenn Perko will be an easier case to manage, and his... unfortunate affect on your career has been noted. Next time, please contact the local authorities on such _trivial_ matters. Try to not let your personal emotions dictate your life, Sherlock."

" _Thank you_ , Mycroft." The call was ended at the same time, whilst difficult emotions continued with either brother. 

 


	10. The Arrival of Molly Hooper

Temporarily dressed in her lab coat, the fabric greeted Molly like a second skin. But she had yet to step into the morgue, an abrupt text from Mary caused her to pause.

_I heard what happened from John, do you need me to join you? MW_

The text came to an unexpected surprise, but nonetheless it was still enjoyed. No one saw their friendship growing from a mere polite understanding, but it had. And Molly couldn't help but be glad for the concern from the mysterious blonde.

_I'm fine, I'm just going to be in and out. MH_

Molly huffed quietly as she waited for the response, meanwhile putting her hair back into a pony-tail. One of the morgue's doors creaked open, and Mike Stamford was the one to join Molly. His clothes were viciously wrinkled, and his shirt was stained from countless cups of coffee. 

"Molly what are you doing out there? Come right in!"

Molly smiled, nerves smoothing over, "Thanks, Mike."

Her phone buzzed with a new message.

_All right. Have fun with Mr. Grumpy! MW_

_Don't I always? Thanks. MH_

And with that, she turned off her phone and followed her boss into familiar territory.

* * *

Sherlock glanced up from the newest addition to St. Barts morgue, somewhat startled to see Molly hastily enter.

His heartbeat throbbed dully in his chest, aching ever so sweetly. Mixed emotions swirled within him, he wasn't certain what it meant. And that would drive him insane.

"Thank you for joining us, Dr. Hooper." Lestrade said from his side, sending a cheeky smile to the pathologist.

Sherlock frowned, why was Lestrade here again?

As if to add onto the consulting detective's dampening attitude, Molly answered it with her own smile.

He didn't wait for them to stop conversing, instead he took it upon himself to start _his_ job.

Laying on two metal slabs were the victims, a man and a woman. The man was attractive and foreign. Of Mediterranean descent, he was unknown. Any name he had was discarded, now he was a number. No. 211542

He was a bit of a hindrance, while his partner was a tad more interesting. The killer's second murder, at least for this purpose.

"This poor soul's name is Tiffany Bunker. Her age is 25, and she worked as a local bank accountant." Greg offered, face creased in pain as he looked over the corpse. And like her counterpart, she was beautiful.

Sherlock often wasn't one to focus on how someone was aesthetically pleasing, but even he could admire her. Unlike most who worked office jobs, Tiffany still had a high metabolism and exercised at the gym. Creamy skin was coupled with standard brown hair, naturally straight as it shone in the artificial lighting.

Despair was a typical emotion swelling within Sherlock, blinding any line of rational thought. She was hideous with her likeness, and how simple a mistake could have been made. How Tiffany Bunker looked so close to _her._

 

It was Molly's turn to show those years spent at medical school weren't wasted. And fuck did she love it, a trait that twisted and curled within her thoughts.

"Cause of death... asphyxiation." She breathed, wandering over to the female as she pulled her gloves on. Sherlock didn't look at her, and Molly cringed at her want for him to do just that. To acknowledge her. Yearn until he ached as much as she did. She pulled the white cloth covering the victim further down, until the top's of her breasts were revealed. Messy bruises littered her cool neck, pink lines already fading into blotches of purple. 

"She was strangled by a pair of hands. Did you already try to lift some prints off?"

Greg nodded his head, "We did but we're still waiting for the lab results, and you know how slow they can be." Molly smiled weakly, she did know.

"Useless, you won't find anything." 

Molly stood away from the corpse, raising her eyes to Sherlock's face. He was staring just as intently at Tiffany, wheels turning frantically behind his eyes. "He would never be so simple to be caught by measly prints, he's more thoughtful than that. No, our killer wants a challenge. He's practically crying for attention, the poem is testament enough for that."

"So what, he's a narcissist?" Lestrade questioned, scratching at his neck. He'd need another haircut, but he kept forgetting. There was too many bodies and cases that needed to be solved, it never ended.

"No. Our killer wants a private relationship, that much is obvious. We're merely catching the scraps."

Molly amazed everyone in the room when she spoke a loud, she never participated in case thoughts or ideas.

"So he's in love?"

" _What?"_ Sherlock choked out, finally catching her gaze. 

"Well," she started, feeling her face heat up, "it seems like he's complaining about it in the only way he knows how."

Sherlock opened his mouth, ready to say something, when Lestrade drowned out his voice with his own. "Great, a love-sick killer! Just what I need!" The inspector loudly groaned, irritated with what humanity had become, "Can we see the mouth then?"

"...Mouth?" Molly pondered, _what on earth is Greg going on about?_

"He leaves bits of a poem in the mouth." Sherlock elaborated, expression blank. 

"Oh. Is... is there a specific poem?"

" _Acquainted With The Night_ by Robert Frost."

"That's, uh..."

"Perverse. Vile?"

"Exactly." Molly agreed, a gentle smile on her lips. Sherlock didn't return it, but that was predicted. Wasn't it?

"I don't want to rush you, Molly. But I really need to get to work." Greg sighed, making his way over to her. He placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing as he towered over her. Molly might not mind it, but to Sherlock it was repulsive.

"Sure thing, Greg." Molly giggled, pearls flashing in the stark room.

 

While Molly worked Sherlock began to speak with a frankly, "Since there will be a third victim, we should start with the next stanza, which goes like this.."

"I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet,

When far away an interrupted cry.

Came over houses from another street."

His gaze slipped over to her, watching as those incredibly small hands brought out crumpled paper from Tiffany's pried lips. She set it to the side, to be scanned and bagged later. "That's where we start, Lestrade."

The greying officer nodded, grim and to the point. "Fine, we'll discuss this later." 

As soon as the door shut behind Lestrade, Sherlock was prepared to say something. The only thing was, he wasn't sure what. He didn't need to worry about it too long, as Molly's person buzzed.

 

Molly removed her gloves and tossed them into the trash before she withdrew her phone from her pocket.

_Can we meet up for dinner? AR_

The pathologist blinked for a moment, chewing on her bottom lip. This didn't escape Sherlock's attention, perking up at the sight.

_Do I know you? MH_

_It's Raphel. The offer still stands. AR_

Odd, Molly couldn't remember giving him her number.

_Sorry, I didn't recognize it. lol MH_

It struck her like lightning, the sudden desire that pooled in her stomach.

_We can change that, darling. AR_

She giggled to herself, covering her mouth with her hand. _That sounds lovely, just like the food. When and where? MH_

_Let's meet back at the cafe. AR_

Molly glanced back up to Sherlock, an apologetic look plastered in place. "Sorry Sherlock, I'm off. For, uh, business. I'll talk to you later!" She added, jogging out of the morgue. The words were caught in his throat as she left, and he swallowed them down. Never to appear again, fading into the harsh finality that was darkness.

"You deserve better, Sherlock."

He spun on his heel, glaring at Mike Stamford. Somehow the old man slipped through the crevices. Made Sherlock forget about him. 

"Enough of your nonsense, Stamford."

Mike chuckled to himself, giving his head a shake, "Not in that way. Tell her how you feel, Sherlock. Neither of you should be dragged along."

His tongue pressed against his teeth, craving a cigarette until his whole body ached. "It's not so simple, Stamford."

"Is it ever?"

 


	11. The Guilty Date: Part One

Molly's breath came out in short pants, chest aching as she jogged up to the cafe. She paused before she entered, slyly looking her reflection over in one of the store's windows. Hair standing on end was smoothed out, as were wrinkles in her outfit. And lastly, she waited for her cheeks to stop being flushed and to take a more natural shade. A few minutes later, Molly was grateful to enter the cafe with her head held high.

There he was, Raphel.

The Spaniard born abroad leaned against a counter, talking to that female barista. Molly tried her best to shoot down a wave of jealousy, thankfully the barista's more dismal partner took Raphel's attention away. 

_Great, this is my chance._

She stepped forward, mindful if her breathing was rushed, "Hello."

The trio snapped to attention, each startled by her arrival. Raphel was the quickest to don a smile, positively beaming at her presence, while looking utterly delicious.

"Are you ready?"

"Am I ever."

* * *

 

"Why didn't you tell me?" John hissed, successfully whacking the side of Sherlock's head with a newspaper.

Sherlock growled as he was popped out of his mind palace, irritated that he didn't get to re-organize his drawers of tobacco ashes and their types.

"What are you talking about?"

John stomped his foot. Sherlock rose a brow at that. "Did you not see the paper, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective reluctantly got out of his reclined position, back straightening as he yanked the printed and often false information from John's grasp. _Weather: Potential for some evening showers;_  which wasn't exactly world shattering.

Ah.

_A member of St. Bartholomew's has been arrested for corrupting evidence. According to an inside source, this evidence was linked to the recent killings. The board and police have yet to make a statement, but it has been appraised to be soon. A Mr. Glenn Perko has had a few altercations with the authorities before, but not to this multitude. Despite the tampering, it is unlikely that the pathologist has any involvement with the Heartbroken Killer._

"Imagine my surprise after reading this, so I gave Lestrade a call to verify. And guess what he told me?"

"It was going to rain later?"

John ignored that comment, storming right along through, "That Glenn was having sex with the corpses!"

The taller man sniffed, crossing his arms together, "Not quite. Mr. Perko never had the chance to engage with Tiffany or the other fellow, but he certainly would. I'm not taking away from the situation, I had around half a dozen interactions with his... patients."

"So that's why you hated him?"

"Once again, not quite. I personally didn't care for him, John. But yes, his fixation of pleasure could be distracting and unpleasant."

"You're unbelievable."

"Unbelievable? No. I'm realistic, unlike this newspaper." Sherlock rested his free hand against his thigh, tapping away on it. John wandered off to the kitchen, clearing a bit of clutter to turn on the stove top. Keen when the kettle had a suitable amount of water inside, he began rummaging through the cupboards, trying to downcast his fascination with this topic.

"What are you talking about?"

Sherlock fingers slowed down, transforming into a  _Vége a világnak._ "The Heartbroken Killer? It isn't very original." His friend halted at the sight of a dusty can of preserved cherries, the cylinder was coated in a thick layer of grim. After baring eye to it, a sudden urge to sneeze overcame John. Every second seemed to have his nose twitching.

"Well not everyone can be a genius, it's probably not even 1% percent of the human population."

Those five digits stopped altogether. "Of my caliber is substantially lower, maybe six people all together."

"Six?" He gave up, and was now fully staring at his friend. "Are you including yourself?"

"Of course!" Sherlock was completely baffled that John would think otherwise, "All right, I'll bite. Who's the rest? Mycroft, and Irene Adler are surely on that list. Moriarty obviously wouldn't be, you know... since he's _dead_."

"Don't be so dramatic, John. And think about it, there's bound to be at least two people out there."

"That makes sense... so, what about the last one?"

"Violet."

" _Who?"_

"Just forget about it, John." Sherlock sighed, flipping back down on the sofa so his back faced the blonde.

"I'm not joking, Sherlock. Who's Violet?"

"Forget it, John!"

 

"Sherlock!?" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, voice picking up from the old vents. John and Sherlock shared a glance before they were off, each withholding from shoving as they raced down the flight of stairs.

Graced with much longer legs, Sherlock was the first to burst into Mrs. Hudson's home. The door groaned as it crashed into the wall, vibrating with the force. A broken teacup was by the older woman's feet, but she didn't pay it any attention. She was much more focused on the telly, a hand covering her mouth.

Sherlock stepped inside, careful of the galaxy of glass shards.

A somber fifty year old turned to his partner, a dyed red head. She smiled at the camera, despite the situation. "It has just been reported a young woman by the name of Lucretia Amello has gone missing, for at least seventy-two hours. This is significant, as she is a heiress to clothing giant, _Abbigliamento Fiore._ The police haven't made a comment, but most are linking Lucretia's disappearance to the Heartbroken Killer."

"Shit." A voice uttered lowly by his side. He hadn't heard John come in, but there he was. Small in stature, but a force to be reckoned with. Sherlock turned back to the telly, but already things were being shuffled about in his mind palace.

"If you have any leads on Lucretia's disappearance, please contact the proper authorities. A hefty reward for any valuable information has been issued." The image of the heiress covered the screen, taken at a recent music festival. The petite woman had her pale brown hair draped across her shoulder, shimmering with the sun's intense rays. _Molly._

He must of said that aloud, as John had placed a hand on his shoulder. Firm and comforting. Sherlock was tempted to shrug it off, but a part of him wanted it. To feel that connection, an understanding of his worries.

"She's safe, Sherlock. It's not like she's prancing around London with some serial killer." That hand squeezed tighter.

* * *

 

"So, um, are you obsessed with that place?" 

"What?" Raphel returned after he finished giving directions to their taxi driver, he leaned back in a pair of tight slacks. Promptly she ripped her scrutiny away, blush warming her face. "T-the cafe, you're always there..."

His expression darkened, muscles in his cheeks twitching. "Ah." He finally said, a casual sound. But it had Molly's body sinking into the taxi cushions, her head buzzing.

"I don't mind, the tea is amazing there! I-I just asked myself...er, does it have any significance to you?"

Raphel laughed, "Oh it does, I guess you could call it my hunting grounds."

"Uh, what?"

"Just a joke." He shifted towards her, patting the softness of her hand. Molly smiled. This felt...  _right._ She found herself moving forward, breath hitching in her throat as their faces were inches apart.

"Look, we're here!" Raphel laughed merrily, digging into his pocket to pay for the taxi fare. The pathologist beside him swallowed a lump in her throat, whole being recoiling.  She was silent when she slid out of the vehicle, hands fiddling with the edge of her shirt when she faced their destination. The Natural History Museum.

“What are we doing here?”

Raphel sent her a smile,  rows of pearls pristine and dazzling. Everything below her knees felt like jelly, making her stumble after him when he strolled up to the building’s doors.

Any sense of displeasure for being dismissed was promptly shoved down in a small little box in her chest. She didn’t have a lot of time to think about it, as she was quickly ushered into the building.

Molly hummed quietly to herself, a shiver dancing on her body with the assault of the museum’s air conditioning.

“We’re headed to the basement.” Raphel stated, making a quick detour to the nearest elevator. The thick metal doors closed solidly, sounding a lot like a tomb.

Molly shivered again. Whether it was because of the decrease in heat or the situation, she wasn’t sure. Among the silence around them, her phone gave a ping.

It echoed, something rigid and cruel. Her hands felt sweaty as she withdrew her phone from her pocket.

3 new message(s) received from: Sherlock Holmes

Sucking her bottom lip into her mouth, she opened up the messages. All too aware of the person beside her, he caused her to feel like she was doing something wrong.

_I’m sorry about what happened, I never meant for this situation to get out of hand. SH_

_Just promise me one thing? SH_

Molly snorted, this was it, Sherlock was going to ask for something utterly selfish like always. It was just like him, never thinking about her own thoughts and feelings. Or anyone for that matter.

_Be safe. Everyone has dark secrets, and despite what others say. It can hurt you. That, and the... Heartbroken Killer is still out there. SH_

Oh.

She paused for a moment, heart fluttering as she thought of what to say. He sort of apologized, but she wasn’t completely sure if that was for her benefit or his own. Still, it was the consideration for her safety that got to her.

“Molly, are you coming?”

She hadn’t heard the doors open, and now Raphel peered at her from the hallway. Nodding, she flashed her date an encouraging smile. “Just a moment.” Glancing back down, she quickly sent him a response before joining Raphel. With a giggle bubbling in her throat, Molly joined hands with him. Thankful for the fact he radiated heat like the sun, she needed all of the comfort she could get.

* * *

 

Sherlock sighed, squinting at the response to his heartfelt messages. He wasn’t sure what he wanted, but _this..._

_I promise. MH_

She was trying her best to dispel his worries, that was obvious. But it didn’t help in the least, he was just left with even more to question. Usually he enjoyed solving a riddle, but he felt used and unwanted.

“I’m an idiot.” He groaned, yanking on his curling hair.

“I can agree to that.”

Sherlocked glared at John, noting his grin with a boiling desire to erase it. Leave it to the blonde to make him feel worse.

“Come on, Sherlock. We have a killer to find.”

That he could do. Sliding off of the morgue’s stool, he reached for his Belstaff. Any cold or helpless emotion was masked with its embrace, the warm fabric clinging to his form.

“And we will.” Clearly he had to tip the scale back in his favour, and this case was the perfect place to start.


	12. The Guilty Date: Part Two

"Here it is" Raphel finally said, pointing to something covered by a white cloth on the far back counter. "Ardi." He stepped forward and pulled back the cloth in flourish. And there it was, the skeleton Molly had barely heard about in the news. She meant to research it further and to study the ongoing investigation, but instead of reading about it, she was a couple of feet away from the remains. She spared Raphel a glance, a knowing smile was plastered on his face. 

"How did you ever..." She started, but ended up shaking her head in disbelief. This had to be one of the best moments of her life, to be so close to a bit of history. Their history. "What did it cost you? A-are we even allowed in here?"

"Why, are you going to tell?" Raphel chuckled. Her heartbeat swelled in her throat. "To answer your question, yes. This is the specimen I was talking about earlier, but to have you here? I had to pull a few extra strings."

A hand was placed on the small of her back, a sheer warmth that both startled and excited Molly. If she closed her eyes and blocked out all of the sounds, maybe she could pretend it was...

 _No._ How could she even begin to think such things? After all of the trouble he went to for _her._ Moving away from Ardi, Molly turned around. She gave a small but present flinch, he was a lot closer to her than she expected. Craning her neck to look into his earthy eyes, the scent of leather and grass invaded the air around them.

_You reek of leather and freshly cut grass, a favourite for those seeking female company. Your friend, fits those specifics._

She shook her head to get that baritone out her thoughts, squeezing her eyes shut against the effort. Something warm pressed against the corner of her mouth, an unusual weight. Flabbergasted, she opened her eyes to see Raphel stepping back.

Did he just kiss her?

"C'mon. The night isn't over yet, we still need to have dinner."

There wasn't that explosion of sensations that Molly coveted and had constantly read about. Not even a tingle. Heat rushed to her face, boiling her inside out with _something._ Did that count? She wasn't sure.

"I'm looking forward to it." She mumbled, hands shoving into her pockets. Immediately she felt the smoothness of her phone pressing back.

* * *

 

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the stiffness of the armrest, grumbling under his breath about how uncomfortable it was. Honestly what was the point in getting a sofa, if you couldn't sit on it?

John wasn't helping matters, not listening to his voiced complaints. It was ridiculous, getting upset over a clothing comment. And how was he supposed to know to not comment on it? The _thing_ he walked out in, lovingly knit by his wife was beyond hideous. 

The sweater was the colour of vomit after having eaten nothing but cotton candy, and on the front was the image of a crookedly smiling hedgehog. 

Immediately Sherlock offered to burn the thing, like the good friend he was. But for whatever reason, John was positively furious with the idea. And Lestrade thought the whole argument was hilarious, and took it upon himself to sit between the pair. Saying he didn't want the two bickering lovers to hurt the case.

"Can you not stop that?" John hissed at him, having to lean forward to be able to see. Just to spite John, Sherlock tapped harder.

"Apparently not." He growled back.

"I cannot _believe_ you." 

"Oh that's rich, John. Maybe you shou-"

"Boys," Lestrade broke through, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "We're trying to solve a case here. Not to start a new one." Grumbling was heard from either one. "Now, please, continue."

"Are you sure?" The woman seated across from them whispered, afraid that the smallest of sounds would set both Sherlock and John off. Lestrade nodded encouragingly, a polite smile in tow.

She took a deep breath to calm her nerves, and as she twirled her hair around a finger she began, "Lucretia and I have been friends since we were four, we even went to the same boarding school. Anyway, Lucy as I called her, was obsessed with travelling the world. But there was one place she wanted to visit the most, England."

Sherlock scoffed, "Why? Nothing happens here but rain. And the killings aren't interesting, just the same-"

"Ignore him," John cut off, "and please continue. If not he'd just spend hours rambling." Moodily Sherlock glared at the blonde, his desire to burn that sweater intensified.

"Um, all right. Then Lucy got accepted to an international program here, which she was beyond excited for. Her parents were a bit bitchy... Sorry, can I swear?" Relieved when Lestrade nodded, she continued, "They bitched about the cost, even though they have a lot of money. 'Cause you know, residence can be pricey here. But my aunt already lives in the UK, so we just stayed with her for a couple of months."

"And you're in the same program?"

"No, my parents sent me because my aunt hasn't been feeling well.." She leaned forward, whispering "And they hope she'll add us to her will, 'cause she has cash stashed everywhere."

"Lovely." Sherlock sniffed, "Who knew vultures were already in season."

John leaned forward, eyes catching the young woman's, "Is there a certain spot that Lucy would frequent, a bar or something? A place where she could escape and be social with other Londoners?"

She chewed on her thumb's nail as she pondered the question, "We didn't go out drinking, we sort of sipped from my aunt's liquor cabinet. But um... there was this cafe that Lucy would go to, it's a great place for students and tourists. Underground really."

"Where?"

She dropped her hand from her mouth, hazel eyes narrowing as she tried to remember. And with a loud gasp, she sputtered "T-to the Memorie" before she gave a short cry.

Seated on the mantle behind her was a photo frame, and inside it was the image of Lucretia. The missing heiress was attractive in only a rich way can be, with flattering curves and lines. And much like her, the woman that sat in front of them had the same colouring. Sherlock couldn't help but think, as he watched tears spill from her eyes, that she was the uglier of the pair. As in a reflection that was shown by a murky puddle that is constantly moved with rain.

 _She's glad that she wasn't taken, and it was Lucretia instead_ , Sherlock thought with a frown.

And he was quite right, Portia may miss her friend, but only because of the gifts and trips the two shared. The possibility of true friendship had long since disappeared with Lucretia's welcomed visit from puberty, and how bountiful it had been. Instead envy took root in the young woman and so she cried tears of relief. "T-there was this man at the cafe, very flirtatious, and he started talking to Lucy."

"Was there anything... off about him?" Lestrade asked, trying his hardest to appear like he was sincere as he pressed his hand against her trembling arm.

"Well, he was a real ladies man, but that wasn't hard to figure out."

Lestrade hummed encouragingly. Portia shivered at the thought of her narrow escape from death, "He... um, was a foreigner, Mexican I think? Maybe something like that. Anyway it was clear that he wanted to get in Lucy's pants, but that wasn't abnormal. He just didn't seem to care that Lucy was seventeen at the time, cause you know, he was pretty old."

"Old like Lestrade?" Sherlock piped in, nodding his head towards the Detective Inspector.

"Oi!" The greying man barked.

"No, younger. Forties maybe? I don't know, he just offered to get us drinks. It was weird cause he was really fit, like a model or something."

Sherlock rose to his feet, not bothering to thank Portia as he headed out. Lestrade profusely apologized in his place before jogging up to meet him on the streets, very similar to John. The detective was just hailing a taxi when he felt a yank on his sleeve, further announced by a heavy sigh.

"I think Mary went to that cafe."

"I know."

"You know?" John scoffed, "Should I even ask how?"

Fighting the chill of the wind, Sherlock pulled the fabric of his coat further down. He rubbed his fingers together, hoping the numbness would go away. "At one point I was tracking Molly." Lestrade snorted off to the side somewhere, but Sherlock wouldn't turn around. "When I found myself at the cafe, I supposed both Molly and Mary would meet up there. But to have it linked to the recent killings... I didn't expect that."

A taxi rolled to a stop in front of them. Lestrade sighed, "I'll get a warrant, so in the meantime try to be discrete."

Yanking one of the taxi's doors open, Sherlock finally looked over his shoulder, "You expect anything less?"

Lestrade blinked for a second before he grimaced, "Frankly? Yes. Try not to fight," he glanced at John, "that means both of you." John nodded as he watched the aging officer walk off, sniffling as he slowly made his way down the sidewalk. _Poor bastard._

* * *

 

After dinner at a nearby Spanish themed restaurant, which Raphel was proud to say was authentic, the pair headed back to the cafe.

She expected to be dazzled, but the food ended up being too spicy for her, not to mention impossible to pronounce. Maybe it was the weather, but something was throwing Molly off. To the point where their conversation was pointless and held an awkward air for the rest of the meal.

Molly was a little uncertain about going back to the coffeehouse, but Raphel pleaded until she couldn't say no. It was strange, because it seemed like the cafe was having more Poetry nights than it was meant to. Anyway, Raphel was performing tonight, which was a treat.

Shortly Molly found herself in a familiar chair, sipping mint tea to calm her nerves as she overlooked the stage.

Instead of that female barista that Molly hated, her male counterpart made his way onto the stage. It was obvious that he wasn't comfortable there, the lighting made him appear washed out and ghoulish.

"Welcome to another Poetry night, tonight's theme is about greed and lust. And following that there is heartbreak, so don't be shy, everyone is encouraged to participate. To everyone that will do so, you don't have to necessarily follow those themes, all right?"

But Than looked like he wanted anything less, and would be much more at ease in a corner, free to glare at unsuspecting customers.

"Wish me luck." Raphel whispered as he gave Molly a soft kiss to the forehead, crisp trousers rustling as he climbed onto the stage.

For a second he mumbled something to Than, which had him surprisingly blushing, before he grabbed the mic.

"Hello, I'm Raphel."

A couple of people whistled, and Molly tried to make out their shadowed features through the dimmed lighting, but she failed.

"This is dedicated to a... friend."

Molly pulled out her phone, setting it to voice recording. 

"It is an excerpt, so here I go..."

"What could he see but mightily he noted?

What did he note but strongly he desired?

What he beheld, on that he firmly doted,

And in his will his willful eye he tired.

With more than admiration he admired

Her azure veins, her alablaster skin,

Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin..."

 

And with claps behind him, Raphel turned back to his seat. Tea left forgotten, Molly leaned towards him, hand gripping a darker one.

"That was amazing." She whispered, hushed by his mere presence. After that the rest of the evening disappeared in a blur, with poems and laughter throughout. Giggling, she let go and went with the flow. With bubbles of laughter vibrating through her being, she stumbled home in hand with Raphel. And without even realizing it, she fell asleep to the glow-in-the-dark star stickers that were glued to her ceiling and kisses that weren't as satisfying. Not if they were from another man, one that spent countless nights thinking. As he did so, that very night.


	13. An Echo Of Lust

When Molly awoke the next morning, she sighed at an unexpected but pleasant ache that seemed to follow her. Face heavy with her short departure from slumber, she loudly yawned against the strong current of sunlight that bathed her room in a golden hue.

"Good morning." She mumbled, turning on her side to face Raphel. Only he wasn't there, in his place there was only discarded bed sheets.

Dread tickled along the surface of her belly, making her nauseous. "Raphel?" She called out, climbing out of bed. Uncaring that she was nude, Molly shivered when the warm light brushed against her body. Padding her way down the hallway, she quickly entered the living room. And seated on her couch as none other than Sherlock Holmes, scornfully petting Toby on his fluffy head. Peering up from the book he had been reading, one of her own, the pair froze as they made eye contact.

Sherlock glanced down to her form, suddenly aware that his pathologist was as nude as the day she was born. Another second passed by. "Is this a bad time?" Sherlock asked, finally tearing his gaze away from her small, but mystifying pleasant to look at breasts.

Molly blinked for a second, "Yes" she whispered. Suddenly spinning on her heel, she bolted down the hallway, sliding on the hardwood floor as she threw herself into her room. Slamming the door shut with a mighty bang, she locked it before grabbing the nearest clothing to her. Some old sweatpants and a large t-shirt with a kitten on it. Dropping to her knees, Molly impatiently searched for a bra. Anything would do...

Head snapping towards the door, she realized that she was doing laundry yesterday. Meaning that she would have to sneak past Sherlock to get to the clothing bin. "Shit" she swore to herself, shaking her bedraggled head in frustration. She jumped back onto her feet, tiptoeing her way over to the door. With a shaking hand, she unlocked the door and slowly opened it. The hinges loudly creaked with the motion, causing the sound to seep into the stillness of Molly's flat.

She peered outside of the door frame before she crept out. Mindful of the creaking underfoot with every step, she slowly walked around the bend. The hallway circled her flat half way, stopping only to be led into her kitchen. She was proud of it, painted a warm yellow by her father when she first moved in and it was still a vibrant shade. Splintered off of the kitchen was the laundry and living room. One of the two ways into the space, besides the entrance. As Molly's feet made contact with the kitchen's cool tiles, she caught a mutter of a voice. Like a butterfly that escaped a jar for a second before it was forced back into its glass prison, only remaining beautiful in vision.

Nearing the door frame, and with her heart pounding loudly in her chest as she hunched herself closer to the ground, she heard it. Or rather, the ending of a sugary voice she loved to sample. To taste...

"- _Her azure veins, her alablaster skin,_

 _Her coral lips, her snow-white dimpled chin..._ "

Raphel's poem, the one she recorded yesterday night with her bulky phone. She felt as if she had swallowed a bullet, painful to digest as it sunk from her throat to her gut. But when there it burned a hole in whatever it touched. Poisonous and exhilarating.  _How dare he go through her things._ _How dare he interfere in an intimate moment._ _How DARE Sherlock be placed in the same sentence as Raphel, a man that she....s-she..._

"Bastard!" She bellowed, jumping from her hiding place and into full view. That mass of black curls shook briefly in surprise before its owner looked over from his position on the couch, neck twitching in pain at the sudden movement and angle. She had completely forgotten the bra, and with the sound of clapping and calls from her phone to cheer her on, Molly screamed like a banshee as she took a few leaping steps before she threw herself at him. Fingernails sunk into the clothed stretch of his arms, an anchor as she thrashed to get that phone from his hands. But like the tall man he was, Sherlock stretched his arms out of her reach, a steady branch bearing forbidden fruit.

Molly howled in outrage, face burning with the effort to push herself closer. Messily slipping into his lap, she grunted and heaved like a savage beast with an open palmed swipe at that gleaming hunk of metal. "Give it back! Give it back! Give it _back!"_   She chanted, tears pricking the corners of her eyes. A strong arm wrapped around her midsection, pulling her even closer to Sherlock. She struggled to get out of his hold as much as to get the damn phone, but quickly she was giving up on that. That encouragement of clapping and laughter seemed to mock her now, a sad background noise as she began to sob. She knew it was pointless, allowing her body to become limp. A pile of boneless mush... Still she was drawn closer, and as she shuddered with every gasp of air, a hand found itself awkwardly and gracelessly stroking her hair. Her face felt sticky and flushed from the exercise, the bittersweet taste of defeat stung her tongue. It took practiced skill with someone that faced social anxiety issues to not throw up, especially on Sherlock and his expensive clothing.

Only when she had exhausted every tear she had in stock were those cradling arms eased up, but only a tiny amount. Molly found herself aware of a thought provoking scent, smoke mingled together with dark chocolate and mint. Sherlock Holmes.

"You're an interesting case, Molly Hooper." He finally said, wincing slightly as he shifted his body. He wasn't used to an additional weight being seated on his lap, but she did appear thoroughly shaken up. Precarious almost, not his usual Molly. No, this one was like a caged animal ready to bite and claw its way to safety. "Especially this poem, it doesn't suit you."

"What does _that_ mean?" Molly snarled, throat throbbing with all of her screaming.

Sherlock rose a brow, a cold polish overcame his face. Molly was almost sad to see those walls be placed up high again, but hey, she was too pissed off at him to care. 

 _He probably scared Raphel off_ , Molly thought with a frown. _Typical_.

"That excerpt is from William Shakespeare."

"So?"

"So, it's from _The Rape Of Lucrece_. A portrayal of the feminine figure known as Lucretia." Finally Molly slid her way onto the couch, properly seating herself. Her taste buds tingled with a sour taste, the urge to retch returned in full swing. More than aware of the progression in his pathologist, Sherlock mercilessly continued on through, "It's rather long, for these circumstances that is..." he sniffed as he eyed his surroundings, "but you always enjoyed poetry, haven't you?"

Molly wasn't sure if she wanted to nod, kiss him, or punch those gorgeous eyes out of his skull. Sherlock cleared his throat, " _As the grim lion fawneth o'er his prey..."_

_"Sharp hunger by the conquest satisfied,_

_So o'er this sleeping soul doth Tarquin stay,_

_His rage of lust by gazing qualified;_

_Slacked, not supressed; for, standing by her side,_

_His eye, which late this mutiny restrains,_

_Unto a greater uproar tempts his veins..._ "

Sherlock eyed the quivering form beside him, "I think I'll spare you the rest, how about some breakfast?"

* * *

 

It was odd watching Sherlock eat, in all of the years she's known him, not once had she seen him have any sort of meal. Especially scrambled eggs and a slice of toast, which he refused to eat at the moment.

What threw her off was the setting, a diner reserved for elderly couples and intellects that rather devour the books they brought with them than the plates filled with delicious food. Molly had bought her own, a small bowl of porridge dusted in cinnamon and fresh fruit slices. But she had lost any sense of appetite, and instead lazily stirred her spoon in her bowl.

"Ask."

She glanced up, wet hair from her recent shower dragging along her brow. "What?" Feeling the need to pretend that she wasn't as anxious as she felt, a spoonful of the oatmeal was scooped into her mouth. The taste of it was lost on her, a mere afterthought.

Sherlock grabbed his cup of coffee that was placed by his plate, sipping the soothing brew.  _Hm, note to self: Send John to this diner to learn how to make a real cup of coffee. Also, burn that sweater_.

"Come off it, Molly. You're dying to know about the poem and why I'm here. Rather, the connection I've made."

The brunette seated across from him sighed and looked off to the side, unconsciously chewing on the bottom of her lip. A nervous habit that he was slowly starting to see as endearing. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair, to feel the texture of it when it was still damp. Would it feel as heavenly as it did a mere hour before? He ripped a piece of toast and popped it in his mouth, fearful that he'd actually perform the action.

"Alright, I'll bite. Impress me, Mr. Holmes." Molly was meeting his gaze now, daring him to speak ill of Raphel.

"How about a history lesson, are you familiar with the Roman empire?" Molly shook her head.

"Perfect. Well supposedly there was this Roman housewife by the name of Lucretia, a real beauty in comparison to her peers. The story starts when a late king of Rome, Lucius Tarquinius Superbus, sends his son on a military errand. Where in Collatia, young Sextus is welcomed at the governor's mansion. Here lives the son of the king's nephew, Lucius Tarquinius _Collatinus_. As the story goes, Sextus and Lucius were having a debate about the virtues of wives, when Lucius declares they would see what his wife was doing. They ride over only to find Lucretia weaving with her maids, but the real interesting bit is what happens at nighttime."

Molly shuddered when Sherlock speared a piece of egg with his fork. "This bit differs, whether a deal is presented to Lucretia or not. Regardless, Sextus sneaks into her bedroom and rapes her. Afterwards she goes to her father's house in Rome, dressed in black. She summons witnesses before she tells of the incident and calls for vengeance, while the lot debates about the disclosed topic, Lucretia pulls out a hidden dagger and plunges it into her heart. With this suicide there was an immediate cause of the anti-monarchist rebellion that overthrew the monarchy."

"A-and?"

"And that voice of your friend," Sherlock started with a sneer, "is certainly peculiar. Not very good taste in timing, I'm afraid." She was almost scared to ask, but she didn't have to wait long. "Did you catch the recent development in the case?"

"No..."

Sherlock leaned forward on his elbows, a smile that didn't reach his eyes was directed at her. "It seems that a woman by the name of Lucretia Amello has gone missing and her friend says that she would frequent a cafe. Ever heard of, _To The Memorie?_   Before she disappeared, Lucretia had a brief and unsteady fling with an unnamed man."

The corners of Molly's vision became hazy, Sherlock's voice was a distance buzz. Her heartbeat was caged in her ears. _Thump thump thump._

"Portia, the woman I questioned, is certain he was Mexican. Which is downright silly, he is clearly Spanish. Wears a cologne that is where he is from, and he is certainly tan. That connects to the first victim found, a man that is linked to Mediterranean countries, which Spain is labelled as."

"That doesn't prove anything!" Molly hissed, dropping her spoon.

 _Sherlock was wrong, Raphel was simply innocent. He couldn't possibly... No, it had to be some freakish mistake. Even Sherlock could be wrong sometimes..._ She started laugh, anything to prevent the tears that threatened to fall.

"You have to admit, it is very odd." Sherlock hummed, pushing his own plate away. "It seems that you always pick the worse men, first Moriarty now-"

Sherlock's head was snapped to the side, crooked and awful to look at. A bruise began to blossom where she had slapped him, right on a perfect cheek bone. He didn't move his face, the curls of his hair blocked his eyes from her.

Molly's hand throbbed in pain, "Can't you ever let me be happy?" She hissed. "Just once, _please_..."

Like a rusted crank, he turned to face her. Molly leaned back, never had she seen him so... calm. No, he wasn't calm. It was a front, a look that she couldn't begin to contemplate. But it had her shaking in fear, a searingly cold feeling that shook her to very core.

"I'm offering you a choice, Molly. Either you settle this... repulsive show with your affair and prove he's innocence, or I find out for myself." Molly tried to say yes, but she couldn't swallow the lump in her throat. Stiffly she nodded, clenching her hands under the table. "Good, we start at the cafe." Sherlock rose to his feet, grabbing the coat he hung off of the diner's chair. Shrugging into it, he began to head out. Molly raced after him, barely managing to slip into her own jacket. That satisfied feeling she had disappeared, along with any emotion on Sherlock's face. He was as cold as a frozen rose, cold and dangerously thorned.

 

 


	14. Quiet As A Mouse

Molly was overtaken with relief as she entered the cafe, a smile fluttering over her features. There was no sign of Raphel, only a few strays that came in for their regular cup of coffee. Shrugging out of her jacket, she tossed it onto the stand before she wandered over to an empty table. Sherlock was busy at the counter, donning a fake smile. Probably flirting with the barista until a few bits of information were unknowingly told.  
The woman at the counter was different, a sunny disposition that would usually make Molly feel at home. But right now the dark haired woman popped a few of the buttons on her shirt undone. Which she would have ignored, if it weren't for her batting her jade green eyes at Sherlock. Hell she had no reason to feel jealous, especially when the man in question was recently seconds away from strangling her to death.

  
_Like the Heartbroken Killer..._  Molly groaned at the thought. The whole thing had her nerves bunched up tight, ready to snap all of her hopes and dreams away like a vicious dog. She jolted in shock when her pocket pinged, and without a thought she pulled her cell out.

  
2 new message(s) received from: Raphel(Not a killer)

  
_Hullo, I'm sorry about this morning. Something came up. ARaph_  
_I just wanted to let you know that I enjoyed last night, and hopefully you'll get lunch with me? ARaph_

Molly glanced up, Sherlock was still preoccupied with the busty staff member. "Good for you" she sarcastically mumbled under her breath.

_It was actually good that you left, something happened. Not that I didn't miss you, I did. But things turned out wonderful... Not that it was because you... MH_

_Oh, bugger. MH_

_Look, what I'm trying to say is that I liked last night. Do you mind if I pick lunch this time? You ought to let a gal impress you. Lol MH_

  
Two Styrofoam cups were plopped onto the table, creamy liquid noisily sloshed against their respective brims. Without asking, or feeling the need to, Sherlock sat down across from Molly. Her phone pinged back.

_Sounds delightful, but that makes sense. The word was created to define such beauty such as yourself. ARaph_

Giggling at the message, Molly coyly glanced up from her phone before sending a response.  _You are just so sweet!!! MH_

Sherlock was openly staring at her, calmly he sipped at his tea as if being caught didn't bother him. But with his unblinking stare, Molly found herself fidgeting and remembering why they were here.

_Hey, Raphel? I have a question that has been bothering me. Do you mind if I ask it? MH_

  
It took five whole minutes until she got a response, but she blamed that on work. _H-he's probably busy right now...Yeah, t-that's it._

_Ask if you must. ARaph_

_How did you get my number? I never gave it to you. I'm certain of that. MH_

_Ah, just that? Your friend gave it to me. The short man dressed nicely. ARaph_

"Short friend...?" Molly mumbled under her breath. She could understand Mary, but even that was quite a stretch. "Sherlock, does John know anyone by the name of Raphel?"

The consulting detective sighed around the second cup of tea, the one Molly assumed was her own. Apparently it wasn't.

"No, and I'm thankful he doesn't. Raphel, dreadful name. Did you mean Araphel? A bit biblical if you ask me." Much help he was, Molly frowned at her phone screen.

_I don't know much short men, or men in general. Do you have a name at any chance? MH_

_No, but he said you'd recognize him. Even gave me a poem to send you. Do you want it? ARaph_

_Oh yes, yes. Go ahead! MH_

_Not often I play the messenger, lol. ARaph_

_Once upon a time, there lived a boy._

_As curious as a cat,_

_But the lad was always so sad._

_For his love was thrown away,_

_A fact that he moaned about throughout the day._

_With scents so excited,_

_To spite them, he tore off their flesh._

_Until it was such a horrid mess,_

_But he liked the bitter feelings afterwards the best.  ARaph_

* * *

 

Portia grunted, dragging the big garbage bag behind her. If she had it her way, she'd be back home, tanning on the warm and always sunny beaches. Instead she's here, looking after a aunt she's never known nor cared about.

"Hurry up!" The brittle voice moaned from inside the house, a reminder that her aunt was still alive - and her inheritance was a decade away from being available, or that's what Portia expected her aunt to live. A miserable decade, maybe a century. Who knows.

"Old hag." Portia mumbled under her breath, walking up to the bin. Following after her mother, the young Italian woman was rather short. In fact her waist line was at an odd range with the bin, so she had to stand on her tip toes to remove its lid. To actually put the bag inside was worse, she needed the muscles in her legs to strain upwards to the heavens to perform the task.

The first thing she became aware of was the smell, revolting in every way. She didn't think much of it, immediately she linked it to the bag in her hand. But it was different from the rotting scent of oranges and forgotten ice cream, there wasn't a sickly sweet smell that made you throw up in your mouth a little. No, but it did make Portia gag.

It was the vivid scent of death, pungent with the welcome of a carved carcass. Her father was obsessed with hunting, and any animals he killed were gutted and stuffed before they were hung on his study wall. It seemed like a big cliche, but it was his passion. As Portia peered inside the bin, she couldn't help but remember a time when she was younger. When she had snuck into her father's office for a gift sent by one of his new trading companies, a packet of expensive dark chocolate. But when she crept in, instead she found herself staring into the newest addition to a grim collection.

A doe, the type that was told in children's stories. Ones with thick eyelashes that were so heavy that the deer constantly batted them at you, dusted in creamy spots against fragile bones. It was neatly hung on the wall, and as Portia stared into its vacant eyes, she screamed. The first thing she saw were the eyes, the colour for a doe. And like when she was younger, Portia emptied her belly. But instead of on her father's priceless Persian rug, it was on her cheap shoes. Brown, just like the eyes.

Inadvertently getting her vomit dragged on the nicely trimmed grass as she stepped back, Portia screamed. It was the same as it has always been, high-pitched and jarring like a pig's. But she screamed, she screamed until her voice hurt and she was puking again.

* * *

 

"You know the signal?"

"I don't need a bloody signal."

"Yes, you _do_. Remember you're here for your friend's benefit, not mine." That last bit was mumbled, but he didn't need her to hear it to get his point across. The reaction would have been the same anyways, a loud scoff before she stomped her way to her destined table. Slipping into a stealthy role, Sherlock sat down four tables over. Enough to give the facade that he had a separate agenda, but close enough for him to assist Molly in any way. And just as he had planned, his date arrived. The well dressed woman sat across from him, looking surprising happy at the moment.

"Hello" she greeted before taking her seat, she played the part well.

"Hello" he responded, giving a quick glance at Molly from the corner of his eye. She didn't notice, much too preoccupied when her friend showed up. The first thing he did was bring Molly into a hug, clutching her tightly to his side. Sherlock snorted, bile coated his tongue. It'd be easier if he was dead, and a lot cleaner.

"Am I boring you?"

The consulting detective gave a joyless chuckle, turning back to his date. It was a bit strange seeing her without any forms of communication, particularly a cell phone. "Of course not, how could I be with one of my dearest brother's spies?"

Anthea rolled her eyes at the jab, reaching for the menu that sat on their table with an air of indifference that even Sherlock envied. "You're the one that asked for a favour."

"I didn't ask for anything, you owe me one. Lest Mycroft find out that you've been pinching some shipments of that expensive chocolate he likes, what a shame that would be. It's always the ones closest to you that have a hidden dagger."

"Still fighting with your crush I see?" She sneered, jabbing her thumb over her shoulder in a certain pathologist's direction. The gesture had Sherlock leaning forward, with a cruel expression on his own face.

"Crush? What a juvenile saying. You should be careful when saying anything else, we don't want to upset anyone. Do we, dear?"

Anthea relaxed her face in a practiced ease, donning a look of utter adornment to the man in front of her. "Of course not, my precious love."

A nervous waitress stepped forward, uncertain why this beautiful couple went from toxic to happy newlyweds. She was definitely getting a weird vibe from them. "Are you ready to order?" She mumbled shyly, eyes darting between the two.

"Cof-"

"Tea," Anthea interrupted. "Two orders of two milk and five sugar. Thank you." Lightly Anthea giggled as she turned towards her date, "Is that fine, Sherlly'?"

"Yes." Came a deep grumble, filled with such dislike that it was laughable. As was the pout of a spiteful child on his lips, but only Anthea snickered. The waitress wouldn't dare, not when her muffled sounds made the brooding customer glare at her. "Just get the tea." He said through grinding teeth.

* * *

 

"About this friend of mine..." Molly started, but was swiftly cut off.

"This again? If you aren't careful I might become jealous of him. No, let's talk of other things." Raphel picked up her hands from the table and held them close, smiling sweetly at her.

She was tempted to do just that, forget about the questions that burned her mind. It didn't help that they weren't good in any way. No, surely they would only cause pain and suffering, but she had to know the truth. To remind herself of that, Molly peered around Raphel's broad set of shoulders. She froze at the sight of another woman, one that was graceful and confident. The sort that had a cinema career and countless flings with male heart-throbs. 

"Molly?"

She jumped at the mention of her name. To her horror, Raphel followed the direction of her gaze. Raphel grinned as he straightened his posture, slightly shifting he said, "My, is that Sherlock Holmes?"

"You know of him?" Came a croaked response.

"Who doesn't? Come, let's see if he'll chat with us." And to her mounting dismay, Raphel brushed off his clothes before he sauntered over to Sherlock's table.

* * *

 

"Nothing else, are you sure?" Sherlock pressed, sipping at his tea. Slowly he got used to it, which was fortunate for Anthea. Otherwise he would have split it on the ground, leaving her to pay and that blubbering waitress from before to clean it up.

"Of course I'm sure, they were blue."

"Yes, but were they navy blue?"

"Sherlock, for the seventh time. Yes, it was navy blue. I seriously don't see the issue here?"

He scoffed, shaking his head at the personal assistant's stupidity, "The issue is that those mittens were _mine_. Mycroft got his red mittens, but apparently he decided to grab mine as well. Typical bastard he is."

"It isn't a big deal, why not buy a pair?"

"They wouldn't be the same, Mumm... My mother knit them herself. Clearly Mycroft wishes to use this against me, certainty to make me look bad at another holiday get-together."

"A pity." Anthea sighed, sliding her phone out of her pocket. Swiftly a shadow loomed over them, and it took a couple of seconds for the pair to look up. It was not because they didn't notice the addition to their party, but they could care less for recognizing another's presence.

"Hullo, my name is Raphel. Excuse me for my rudeness, but are you Sherlock Holmes?" The man in question snorted loudly, causing the people that sat at the tables around them to glance in their direction, each held a curious stare.

"Odd. _It_ looks like it can see, let alone say a semi-articulate sentence. Isn't that peculiar, Anthea?"

"Very odd. Do see what it wants." The woman hummed, beginning to text someone unknown a long message filled with a lot of exclamation marks. Sherlock twisted his form towards Raphel, a false smile pressed in place. Blandly he ignored the petite woman that shuffled besides the man, especially when she grimaced.

A voice shrieked in the back of his head before uselessly chirping like a parrot, _be nice, be nice, be nice, be nice to the man you hate, be nice. BE NICE._

"So are you the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh for the sake of deduction" he cursed, "yes I am. Ding ding! The local fool has won a prize, and what is that? Why, the chance to not dim the intelligence of every person in the room. Congratulations, Reilly!"

"Raphel."

"Oh I am so sorry, _Ryan_."

"I apologize, Mr. Holmes. I should have waited until you finished your intense conversation, would I perhaps better myself in your books if you came over to my house? My mother always said: to insult someone powerful led to death knocking on your door much sooner. So please, accompany Molly and I to my house for refreshments. Please?"

Sherlock smiled, something that had everyone bristling. And with a softer voice than Molly was used to, as if he was proud of Raphel and had ushered him into saying that, he said, "I'd love to." 

* * *

 

After a rather awkward taxi ride, with Molly squished between Sherlock and Raphel, eventually their little party headed off to Raphel's home. The whole time Molly envied Sherlock's date, as she comfortably sat with the driver up front.

"My humble little nest," Raphel sighed as he swung open the entrance's door, "welcome, everyone!"

Sherlock was the first to push his way through, calmly pacing around the small house with a fixated expression. Ever so often he would stop, and squint at a book or a piece of paper that was hazardously placed in a pile. And there was a lot of those.

Raphel's furniture was minimal and plain, with a use opposite of what it was intended. Couches had toppling books and occasional vials of foreign substances, some of which was probably life forms frozen in slabs of amber.

Still, Molly liked it for the purpose it was used. It looked far more like a messy college student's dorm than a serial killer in waiting, and for that she was thankful.

Pushing some paperwork onto the other side of a fern decorated sofa, Molly sat down.

"I have some wine in my kitchen, would you like to pick from the selection?" Raphel offered to the nameless woman. Pausing for a moment, she curtly nodded. Hopelessly Molly fought the anxiety that smothered any rational thought, especially when Raphel followed her into the joined room.

Molly pulled out her phone and sent out a text.

_Who is she? MH_

It didn't take long for Sherlock to message her back from where he had disappeared off to.

_I'm afraid I have no idea who you're talking about. It'd be nice of you to elaborate. SH_

_Don't play games with me, Sherlock. I'm talking about THAT WOMAN. You know, the one that is in the kitchen with Raphel! MH_

_I didn't know that, as I'm NOT in the kitchen. Anthea is an associate that has certain skills that will be useful in these situations. And don't worry, I happen to know that she is in a committed relationship with someone and isn't the type to cheat, so relax. Now stop distracting me, I'm trying to pick the cellar's lock. SH_

Molly shot up from her reclined position, shooting a glance towards the kitchen, she rapidly tapped away at her cell's keyboard.

_WHAT. SHERLOCK, STOP! WHAT IF HE CATCHES YOU?! MH_

_SHERLOCK???!!?! MH_

Just as she was about to have a panic attack, thankfully Sherlock snuck into the living room. Smug didn't graze the surface of that smile, which grew when Molly choked at the sight of him. Slipping in beside her Sherlock leaned in close, whispering "Be quiet, I only opened the door and entered to unlatch a window. Later tonight you should be able to sneak in, he's not going to be here."

"What do you mean he's not going to be here?!" Molly hissed under her breath, shivering at the proximity. His leg was pressed against her and an immense heat radiated into her own.

"Anthea has convinced him to have dinner with her, under the pretenses that she'll be able to get him in my good graces."

"Lovely," Molly grumbled, "and how did she tell you all of this?"

Sherlock pulled out his phone from his pant's pocket and shook it at her, smiling at the sour expression on his pathologist's face.

"Wait a moment, why does that matter to him?"

He snorted, "Raphel has a bit of a gambling problem, and he believes that I'll be able to cover any sticky conversations with some less than appealing fellows. After all, Anthea has spoon fed him about the many connections I have with useful persons of interest."

"...And he believes that?"

"I get good publicity and several of my co-workers have beneficial attributes, yourself included."

Molly frowned, and a thought swam in the air, _what attributes?_ Aware of this, Sherlock refused to meet her curious gaze as he answered with, "You aren't an idiot, Molly. There's a reason I call on you so frequently, and it isn't just because of your caring personality and beau... You're brilliant in your field, Dr. Hooper."

Silence settled around them, and neither could think of a way to advance this conversation. But it didn't matter, Raphel stumbled into the room with a happy grin on his face. He held a wine bottle above his head in victory, seemingly unaware that more than a half of it was gone. "I have, the er- wine!" He slurred, An unaffected Anthea slipped in behind the display. 

 


	15. The Grand Disappearing Act

Later that evening, a light rain settled over London. Any grit or grim from previous days were gently washed away, sinking into the deep crevices of the roads. Because of this shift, Molly only needed a wool sweater to protect herself from any chill.

"Shit." She swore, a mere mumble that pricked at the night's suffocating silence. Discretely she was dropped off twenty minutes ago, leaving her to walk the rest of the way to Raphel's house. She felt rather ridiculous, more so because she doubted him, but it was her duty to prove his innocence. Then, and only then, would she gather the courage to tell Sherlock where he could stick it. But only when she stilled this sense of dread that followed her.

Crouching low to the ground, slowly Molly circled the house. The dark colouring of the building looked a lot more mysterious in the harsh setting, with the lamps that hung near the front door glowing a faint orange. Half hidden by a bush of wild roses that grew rampant, was a window. Forcing her shouts into the bottom folds of her throat, Molly ignored the thorns as she parted the bushes. Just grazing her thighs as she pressed herself closer to the damp soil of the flowerbed, Molly dug her fingernails under the window's lip, pulling it upwards with all of her strength.

A groan struck a cord in the heavy night, the sound of the rust flaked window giving way. And with a screech that sent Molly stumbling backwards, it opened. Now was the tricky part, to slip inside the stout window and into the cellar.

* * *

  
"Read it out to me," Sherlock grumbled, bent over as he tied his shoelaces. It always led to downfall to have one loose, especially when it affected a good chase down questionably streets. The sigh on the other end of the line was filled partially from tiredness, while a big chunk of it was from frustration. Frustration at having to stay late at the morgue and spend a couple of hours in a chilled room with Mike Stamford, who wasn't that bad, but John would rather be in his warm bed with his wife. Still, he read out the message.

  
"I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet,  
When far away an interrupted cry,  
Came over houses from another street."

  
Sherlock paused for a moment, "Was there any signs of rape?"

Another sigh, this time joined with the crumpling of paper. No doubt the report. "Um, no traces of semen. There was however penetration with what we're guessing is a foreign object."

"As in what?"

"A metal rod, anything to cause ripping and bleeding. Sherlock, her parent's are being flown in to identify the body..."

"I know, John." It was his turn to sigh, and soon John's fretting just became a series of indistinguishable noise in his ear. He felt as if he was drowning, just barely above the surface. He had oxygen, but he couldn't get enough of it. Not with the waves of water that assaulted him, pooling into his gasping mouth. Smothering him. And just as he finished tying his shoe, the next stanza rung clear in his mind.

  
_But not to call me back or say good-by;_  
_And further still at an unearthly height,_  
_One luminary clock against the sky._

  
"But not to call me back or say good-by..."

* * *

  
Huffing as she squeezed through the frame, she fell. Every second felt like an eternity, falling into the pitch black. A heartbeat later she met the cold concrete floor, and the air in her lungs escaped with a loud, _oof!_

With unsteady feet she climbed back up, trying to make sense of the swaying room. She rose a hand to her face, feeling for any lump or cut that may have resulted from her fall. Nothing beside a little swelling near her cheekbone. Stretching her hands out in front of her, she towards forward. Something cold and damp brushed against her fingertips, she moved her hands to the side, and was comforted to know that it followed her. A wall.  _Now where's the switch?_ Molly thought with a small smile. Just make a survey for anything out of the ordinary, then leave. Easy as pie, blueberry pie.

She moved about for another minute, carefully searching for that switch. Brushing against a crate, a strange sound met her ears, almost like a muted tapping. Puzzling over it, her heartbeat picked up. And when she realized what it was, that useful organ skipped a much needed beat. For it was footsteps, quiet ones that approached her.

She froze, not daring to move a muscle in the shadows. When a sudden light blinded her eyes, and she had to screw them close at the severity of it. Molly wondered over this development for a split second before a terrible pain entered the back of her head, next the world was dosed in darkness once more. With an explosion of red and indigos behind her eyelids, she couldn't prevent her knees from buckling. A strange weight was pushing on her shoulders, further and further down until she feared that the earth would suck her up. She thought one last thing, a single word that had no meaning, besides its name.  _Sherlock...._

 


	16. Direction and Introduction

A moan floated in the room, bouncing off of the walls and into Molly's head. With a startled sense of realization, she figured it was her own. Eyelids heavy, she peeled them open, feeling like a newborn babe. Everything was fuzzy around the edges, making her sick to look at the image too long. She raised a hand to her head, only she didn't. Or she couldn't, no matter how hard she tried. Confused she slowly lowered her head down to her chest, and peered at her torso with one eye.

Thick ropes wound her limbs down to the skeleton of a chair, holding her hostage. She tried to move her left hand, but the effort exhausted her.

"It's wonderful that you decided to join us, Ms. Hooper."

Her head ached with the words, they made no sense. Forcing her eyes to stay open, she glared at the figure before her. Leaning against a large oak desk, Than offered her a bitter smile.

"We?" Molly croaked, wishing for a nice glass of cool water right now.

"Yes, Raphel is with us. Isn't that right, pet?" Than waved to the right of Molly, who twisted in her seat she found herself looking at a similar chair adorned with rope. He looked certainly better than she felt, with groggy eyes that came with being drunk. Shaking his beautiful head, Raphel greeted her with a lazy smile, "M-Molly, what're you doin' here?"

 _Not...much help_ , Molly haltingly thought with a grimace. "Than, wha- what are you doing?" She ground out, that pain was becoming larger. Almost as if something was piercing into her skull and wished to scoop out her brains.

"Isn't it obvious, Molly? I'm going to kill you. Well... not so soon, as you've lasted the longest so far."

"Longest?"

"Yes, first it was that girl... Tiffany, I think it was. And then Lucretia, she was even longer. Sad really, she seemed to be such a docile girl." Than stalked over to Raphel's chair, gripping a fistful of inky locks. He pulled until its owner followed his arm, grunting in pain as he went. With an unsatisfied whistle, Than dropped his catch, leaving Raphel to fall back into his chair. Angry crimson lines from the rope were curled around his arms, scratching until the skin was raw and bleeding.

Inhaling sharply through her nose, Molly bared her teeth at the coffeehouse worker, "Let me go, Than. I have friends who'll find out about this and you."

"Molly do you know how many times I've heard that bullshit? That Italian bitch was the worst for it, boasting about how her parents would find and gut me like a fish. But where are they? Their child is dead and they still haven't bothered to show, much less care. Do you think you're any different? I know you're type, the timid woman that cowers at the mere mention of a social get-together. What possible friends could you have? A half dozen cats?"

Fat angry tears welled in the corners of Molly's eyes, threatening to fall and humiliate her further. But besides all of the self hate she felt, Molly wanted to bash her captor's skull open. To preserve her well being and to not induce him into a violent rage, Molly bit her tongue. Maybe if she milked this then someone would show up. Greg, Mary, Mike, John, or _Sherlock_.

"Well, what about the first one?"

Than slowly circled around, causing the hair on Molly's arms to stand on end. "Care to elaborate?"

Stumbling through any set of words she could use to properly convey what she meant, Molly sighed.

"The... the man, without a name. Whatta- what about him?"

It took a couple of seconds, but it was clear to Molly that she had speared his attention and memory. "Ah, let's not talk about him," he said as he waved off the question, like the body that resided in St. Barts was a mere fly. 

"Why?" Was ripped from her lips, bubbling like molten hot lava. Spewing and fizzing it claimed her, and she wanted it to. Than snapped his attention away from Raphel and back to Molly, a look of loathing and utter hatred marring his features.

"Because he's _insignificant_. No one fucking cares about him!"

"Then why did you kill him? Why, if your _work_ is so important to you!?" She shrieked, the dark tension caused her to become delirious. The things she meant to hold onto flew from her mouth, leaving without any sense of awareness.

" _Just shut up!"_ She saw it this time, the tightly clenched fist that glided through the air. Molly couldn't help but watch as it moved in slow motion towards her, like a series of slides in a blurred frame. The photographer couldn't stop his hands from shaking, destroying the elegance of the film. Than's hand made contact with her temple, hitting a bruise she didn't know existed until now. Her whole body seemed to follow the movement of her head, loyally trailing behind as it crashed downwards. The chair resisted for a moment, creaking pitifully in restraint. But eventually it followed suit with the rest of her, sobbing on the cold and damp ground.

Her mouth tasted bitter with rust, a sign of blood. She must have cut her tongue on the way down, probably on a tooth. Molly tried to spit a wad of it out, but she was far too weak to do so and it landed on her chin. Blinking through a sea of tears, Molly peered up at her supposed savior, Raphel. Only he wasn't brimmed with consumed rage as she wished, not at all. He regarded her with a frank expression, particularly focused on the foamy smear of bloody drool that dripped from her chin and onto the concrete, matting her hair as it went.

He was thankful. Thankful that he wasn't being hurt. That she was taking the brunt of it and he could just watch the scene before him unfold. Maybe Molly could have blamed this on the wine he drank previously, but no. Those earthy eyes had a sober clarity, shocked into it. Shortly she was drawn into the air, pulled up by the ropes that tightly clung to her midsection. Molly blinked as she stared into his eyes, the potent stare of death before her shaking figure. She could have done multiple things at that moment, plead, scream, cry, or even try to seduce her way out of this situation. But she did neither of those things, despite her injuries, Molly found herself in serenity with the fact that she'd have to save herself. And so she searched the deepest confines of her mouth before she spit a massive glob of saliva, phlegm, and blood into Than's sneering face, catching him right in his eye and the cheekbone joined to it.

The teeth that sat in her head rattled like wind chimes hanging from a porch's beam, caused by the open palmed slap he had given her across the face. The affect exploded a bubble of pain into her brain, imprinting it there, no, carved its existence with a dull blade. She didn't have time to dwell on it, Than was already releasing his hold on her shirt, letting her to fall back down with a massive thud. On the desk previously mentioned was a tray, a sheet of stainless steel that Molly recognized. She had used them often, but since Than was anything but a professional, he had to resort to a colourful assortment of knives.

It didn't make sense, Than was supposed to strangle his victims, not stab them. _I'm going to kill you. Well...not so soon, as you've lasted the longest so far._

* * *

 

_"Beautiful, simply beautiful." Than blushed as he looked back up, but that small smile that was breezily held together on his lips was quickly dashed away._

_It was obvious that Raphel didn't mean him, he never did. Instead he was focused on a slim brunette that stood by the bulletin board, unaware of the comments and conflict she unknowingly caused._

_"I'm going to talk to her." Raphel whispered once, going in for the kill._

_Than seethed from his counter, fingernails digging into the palm of his hand._

* * *

 

All she could do was huff and hope that the rising of her chest wouldn't add onto the discomfort she already felt. Wielding some sharp scissors Than cut her t-shirt away, soon revealing the clammy flesh of Molly Hooper's bruised body. He wasted no time in having her pale pink bra revealed, frowning when her nipples hardened from the cold and pressed against the fabric. He glanced over to Raphel, "You're awfully quiet over there."

The other figure strapped down to a chair didn't say anything, his focus seemed to be directed at Molly. You could taste the emotions in the air, fury, confusion, lust, fear, jealousy, and more importantly, pain.

"Raphel, I'm talking to you!" Than hissed with a loud stomp that had his victim flinching. The cool metal of the scissors grazed the soft surface of her ribs, raising a faint line of irritation to everyone's sight. Molly sucked in her breath, and gurgled when her chest and throat burned from doing so. It was starting to sink in, Molly's torment. And the discovery seemed to not adjust well to Raphel's stomach, and with a few gasping starts, he began to retch.

The putrid scent of sugary wine filled the air, mingling together with the foul scent of the basement they were in and the previous meal Raphel had. "Raphel?!" Than screamed, dropping the scissors with a clatter before he sprinted over to the man's side.

Molly wasn't sure if she could see it right, but just then she understood or at least recognized one of the emotions he used. The ever typical malice was there, but there was something else. Soaked in obsession was a single appearance, one that Molly recognized occasionally. Than was drowning and Raphel was the fishermen that happened to pass by, pulling him successfully out of his endless cage. It was the look of devotion and love, but it was twisted to the point of no return.

The pieces to the puzzle started to click together, and Molly recoiled as much as she could. She was the other woman, and she was now sitting in the midst of a psychotic lover's quarrel. When Raphel stopped vomiting on himself and the floor, Than reached out for him, humming as he pressed the Spanish man's head against his chest. Cooing as he stroked his hair, Than grinned up at Molly, practically bursting with pride and delirium as Raphel listened to the hammering of his heart. She wondered if they could hear her's, it was beating so loud.

* * *

 

"What do you mean, _gone?"_   Sherlock bellowed into his phone, ever so pleased with the thought to throttle the person on the other end.

"It means I was just informed by Anthea that both Molly and her lover have gone missing. Which was rather rude, cut right into my late night paper work." Paper work meant eating a chocolate or two stashed around his lovely home, only feeling self conscious and regret with cheating on his diet when Anthea rushed into his room, spewing gibberish.

"You have to know where, you're the bloody government!"

"I am certainly not, Sherl. Now, let's think. Knowing you, and though you'd hate to agree, I do _know_ you."

"I hardly have time for thi-"

"Do be quiet, dearest brother. Granted that you've fallen into a jealous rage, which we all expected. And I do mean all."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, sighing heavily as he endured the little speech. Struggling to slip his arms into his coat, he yanked on the cuffs. The effort had very few benefits, but the resistance of the roughened skin of his fingertips did comfort him as they felt the familiar fabric.

"Then unbeknownst to you, you'd share some vital information with Ms. Hooper. Something you would hope would aid the division or sudden strife between the pathologist and her short lived affair. The question is, what information did you give her?"

In answer the sound of a door being slammed shut echoed, buzzing in the older Holmes child's ear. A couple more seconds passed, more than it was ought to. For a moment Mycroft was afraid, he was untouchable. He made sure of that, honed that aspect into fine armor and a sharp sword. It had taken more than a decade to do it, but it was a worth it in the end. He had tried to do the same with Sherlock, but he always did hate following the rules. This was one of those instances, scenarios where Mycroft's all seeing eyes had trouble doing just that.

"Sherlock?" He breathed. He was almost ashamed of the waver he found there, the tremble of caring, the ruin found in its embrace.

"I killed her."

"...What are you talking about? I'll send a vehicle to your location, are you sure you haven't hit your head?"

"I was being greedy... You know the feeling, Myc. It was like what you said, I was proud when I discovered his damnation, I had to flaunt it right under her cute button nose. I unlocked the cellar's door, slipped in and unlatched a window." Sherlock chuckled, "Stupid. How could I have been so blind?"

"Sherlock...I... I'm not sure what to say."

"Ha. I've waited forever to hear those words, but it's kind of funny. I could have used a couple of them right about now. Hm, you must be getting old. Your timing is off."

"... Anthea will of course remember where he lives, the police will be notified when the location has been secured. I have a team waiting, I only need your word."

"I already have one, Mycroft."

Sensing his brother was just about to hang up on him, Mycroft sputtered out the words he'd been meaning to say when he first heard the news. "Sherlock, she won't be the same." He paused on that, heartbeat fluttering in his throat when silence roared on. "And... Sherlock, I'm sorry for that. Good luck." He didn't have the heart to hang up first, dutifully waiting until he heard the final click. Still, an affectionate sensation lurched within his chest. For Sherlock muttered two words, and even though they were stained with a saddening emotion, it was still present.

" _Thank you._ "

* * *

 

 _"_ _Thank you." Raphel laughed, stretching his arm around Than's shoulder. He had to hold the smaller man's weight up a bit, as he appeared to go boneless in his legs. But Raphel didn't mind, not at all. This close comfort was the least he could do, his latest fling was more than he expected. And to think, all he needed was a couple of verses from a poem._

_"And I really do mean that." Raphel added, left hand making its way from Than's shoulder and along his chest._

_"Do you need anything else?" Than hissed. Already he had made up his mind to stay mad at Raphel the whole day, to prove that he wasn't just some puppet. He had feelings and needs, which were being ignored recently. J_ _ust as that hand drifted down towards Than's belt buckle, he yanked it away like it burned. Raphel blinked for a couple of seconds in shock, "What has gotten into you?" He mumbled._

_Giving a loud and dignified snort, Than turned his body away from his company, "Oh, why don't you piss off!"_ _Grabbing the searing hot pitcher of recently brewed coffee, something which he was tempted to spill down Raphel's expensive clothes, Than placed it between them as he was roughly spun back._ _Only, Raphel spared it a small glance before focusing on his eyes. Choosing to ignore the threat that leered in front of him, the Spaniard reached out and gripped both sides of Than's face._

_"Listen to me." He breathed, having to lean down to make proper eye contact. But the affect wasn't wasted, and immediately Than's eyes became cloudy and half-lidded. "_ _You are important to me, more than they could ever be. They might be nice to have sex with, but they could never get me like you do. Do you understand, Than?"_

_The man in question chewed on his bottom lip, suddenly having the urge to look away from those brown eyes._

_"Good, now don't forget it. If it won't be too much to ask, will you help me with another Poetry night?"_

_And before he even registered the demand disguised as a mere inquiry, "Yes" was snatched away from his lips._

_"Magnificent. I knew I could count on you." Raphel chuckled, leaning forward to press a kiss on the corner of Than's mouth. Dropping his hands, he left Than standing there. Feathers smoothed over with the gesture, he frantically thought over another poem to use. To please and bask Raphel in its glow, and to share him with everyone else._

* * *

 

"But where could they be?" John huffed, struggling to keep up with the quick pace of Sherlock's long stride.

"Where could _she_ be. I care less if he's ever found again, John." Sherlock grumbled, face dark and loud like thunder stewing in the sky.

"You may hate it, Sherlock. But Molly is in a relationship with that man, no matter how much of an idiot he is."

"Mary filled you in?"

"Yes. She was quite determined to check his background, I guess she still has some of her old contacts. And she knew how much you mean to me... I mean, as a best friend. So it makes sense that she'd be all over Molly."

Sherlock came to a bustling stop near the side of the road, waving his arm like a pale beacon for any nearby taxi. And sure enough one came to a crashing halt in front of them, brakes screeching at the sight. With the loud purring of the engine to warm them, Sherlock swung the car door open. Glancing over his shoulder, he sniffed, "Mary wants to double date?"

"Yes." John coughed, looking rather embarrassed. Scooting over so that the blonde could press himself into the leather of the seat, Sherlock blinked at the coolness of the vehicle.

"Let's just hope there's something to actually date, much less, if she'll even speak to me again." Sherlock frowned when it became quiet, a lot more than he was used to. It left him feeling exposed to the world, and for once he didn't like the emotions it evoked. Not if it had such a heavy price to follow suit.


	17. Coffee Bruises

"M-Molly?"

The pathologist turned her head to the side, head throbbing in pain as she forced herself to look upwards. She put as much heat as she possibly could at Raphel, glaring until her face hurt and felt swelled with anguish.

Taking her silence as much as a response as anything, slowly Raphel took a deep and steadying breath. "I'm so sorry." He mumbled, wriggling his fingers as he fretted.

"Did you know?"

Raphel glanced back down to the figure pressed against the ground, shivering with the coolness from the stones. Slight confusion and despair entered his throat, closing it so he could only manage a loud croak, "What?"

Molly sighed, turning her head away in favour of staring at the ceiling. "Did you know about any of this?"

The question dwelled in the room for several moments, shaping the emotions that lingered there. Along with the standard confusion and anger, there was fear. Fear that Than would come back any moment from some dark corner, listening and fuming at their conversation. While Raphel thought of the best possible response he could use to explain himself, Molly decided it was now a wonderful time to take chances. Across the room was that table, the one with all of the knives and torture tools. Somehow if she managed to get herself over there, then she could cut the rope that tied her up. Next she would arm herself with a weapon, and then she'd fight her way out of this hellhole. Only that thought brought a tiny smile to her lips. For she knew if she didn't calm herself down and think rationally, she would be having a nervous break down. Anything that resulted in a lot of screaming and crying.

_Thud._

Molly snapped her head upwards at the sound and gave a following wince at the ache it caused. The sudden sound had her heart racing, and it was continued with glass breaking.

"Maybe he's fallen into one of his rages." A voice whispered aloud, filled with terror at the possibilities. Choosing to ignore Raphel, the brunette sprung into action. Planting her two feet solidly on the ground, she pushed with all of the strength her leg muscles had towards the table. A scraping sound filled the air, alarming anyone listening that something peculiar was changing in the room. But Molly didn't care, Than's tantrum upwards blocked out the sound of her endeavors.

"What are you doing?" Raphel hissed, appearing to be ready to vomit again. With those fingers of his dangling, he eyed the room's only door with a sad expression. "He's going to get mad." He moaned, turning a sickly shade at the mere thought.

As sweat poured down Molly's shaking body, slowly she made the progression towards the knives. The lack of food in her system was seriously affecting her, and any energy she had that was pent up was quickly evaporating. "Well," Molly panted, "Than can go fuck himself then." As if to make her point, she gave one last mighty heave with her legs only to end up a foot away from the oak desk.

 _Right. Stage two: Get a knife without harming yourself_ , Molly thought with a wary grin. Groaning under her breath at the painful shift of her ribs, she began to swing her body from side to side. Feeling quite like a turtle on its back, Molly tried to get enough momentum so that she and the chair could be flipped on her side.

* * *

 

"Are you sure this is the right place?" John ground out. The wind swept up his voice and carried it off, leaving his lips to appear to be moving but without any following sound.

Sherlock pulled himself back from the corner, pressing his body against the brick wall. "I'm positive, but we can't make a lot of noise." Face screwed up in determination, he turned back to Greg. "I'll distract him, while you get Molly."

"And don't forget him, Sherlock." John piped in, reminding the consulting detective of his extensive dislike for Molly's fling.

"Fine, we'll get everyone." Sherlock grumbled as he rolled his eyes, "Just, make sure she's all right. John, go with Greg."

"What, why?"

Fighting back another shiver from the wind, Sherlock gripped John's left shoulder. He leaned down, close enough that his friend could look into his eyes and hear him. "She's probably hurt, John. And you have medical experience, I'd just hinder the process if I'm there. But quickly, we don't have a lot of time." He squeezed John's shoulder gently and was relieved to find that his friend understood how much this meant to him.

"All right, just be careful."

He left the two in that alleyway, by his lonesome he approached the building. The wind continued its assault as he strode across the street, and once he grabbed the doorknob and stepped inside, he felt a lot colder than he ever could in that frigid weather.

* * *

 

"Please..." Molly mumbled under her breath, a chant that ignited her desire to live. And as if her prayers were heard, soon the chair groaned as it was rocked onto its side. As gravity dragged Molly's body towards the ground, she hissed in complaint.

"Are you all right?"

"I don't know, Raphel. Am I?" That shut him up, and he stared off to the side in regret and dismay. Molly gave a short groan, attempting to somehow pull herself and her chair back up. However the injuries that her body sustained were festering with pain, and she found herself unable to do so. "Oh, no." She whined, angry tears bubbling in her eyes. With a cry she kicked a leg out, striking the revealed frame of the table. Again and again she hit it, watching as the antique shivered and shook with the movements.

"Please. Please. Please. Please. Please..." She chanted once more, almost as if she were in a trance. The tray slid closer to the edge, sounding like skates on a fresh piece of ice as it was forced to scratch along the table. And with one last kick, one that she knew would contain all of her well needed energy, she struck the table's frame with a resounding blow. At the same moment, a pain raced up from her shoe and into her foot, clutching it with the feeling. She bit back the scream that crept towards her lips, but she couldn't help the moan that slithered into the room. She choked on the sound, chest heaving as she gasped for any possible air.

* * *

 

The bell above the door rung out to announce his arrival, and with its tiny sound, Sherlock donned a cheerful and friendly smile.

Wiping at a counter was a rather average man, which would have been surely normal with his name pin, but Sherlock knew he was Molly's attacker. Clearly he was stressed out, as the palm that was wrapped in the wash cloth, pressed harshly against the wood. As Sherlock made his way towards the gentleman, he took note of the flushed area of his eye and cheek. For a second he thought that maybe he had been slapped or mauled in some way, but the skin was merely aggravated. Sherlock glanced back to the counter, where the same frantic cleaning was taking place.

"Sorry, we're closed." The man grunted, eyes shifting towards the door the farthest from them. His whole body language screamed, _I'm busy, leave!_

"I apologize, but I really need a coffee. Can you make an exception, my..." Sherlock paused as he made sure of his deduction, "my _boyfriend_ just left me, and I'm sure a nice drink will take my mind off it."  _That's it, take it..._

Than's, as the pin addressed him, features softened into a compassionate goo. Most likely reminiscing about the man he also pined for, maybe he thought them kindred spirits. A cautious smile was soon on his face, making sure to give Sherlock a look over before responding. That action curled the nerves in the consulting detective's stomach, making him partial to either vomiting or strangling the staff member. "Well, we're not supposed to do this, but I'll make an exception for you." Than whispered, before his gaze wandered back to the counter that separated their bodies. "So tell me, what idiot would give you up?"

"Ah, well his name was John."

"John? Ooh, what did he look like? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

Sherlock's smile deepened, as he hunched himself over the counter so he'd closer to Than, he made sure to have a forlorn expression on his face. "Blonde, short thing. I guess I have a thing for shorter men, haha." He pretended to not notice when Than perked up, grinning as his fingers inched towards his own. "Well, he's a doctor. And you must know how they can get, always cranky and prissy. Anyway, he's with someone else now."

Sherlock sighed, placing his head on his bent elbow. And like he expected him to, Than soaked it all up with a pleased and sympathetic nod. "That's awful, I know a thing or two about boyfriends fancying others. This man, is he a good fit? Sorry, not like that. But do they deserve each other?"

"Hm? Oh, yes. The bloke's name is... G-something, he's an officer. Older fellow, but clueless. I'm afraid it won't last long, no, not at all."

"Well that's good isn't it?"

"Ah yes, it is."

Than smiled brightly at him, only a touch shy and suspicious. As if remembering something, he gave a short gasp. "Oh sorry, how do you like your coffee?" When Than turned back to Sherlock, offhandedly reaching for a mug, he found himself smiling at the handsome bloke across from him.

"Forget about it, I got what I came for."

"...S-sorry?"

The next moment Sherlock was hurling himself over the counter, body colliding with Than's as he gave him a swift punch to the temple. The pair were quickly tangled with one another, writhing with the fight on the floor like eels on a riverbed.

* * *

 

With a triumphant laugh, Molly sent the knife crashing to the ground with a loud clatter. Next she stretched her leg out to scoop the sharp object towards her body, careful of the blade, only reaching for the handle. With a lot of fidgeting and arching of her muscles, soon Molly had her knife in hand. Blindly she cut at the ropes holding her captive, only being able to see what she was doing by peering over her shoulder.

Every time the blade hummed near her flesh, an excited and fearful jolt hummed through her body. Thankfully enough, she cut a coarse line through the ropes and was soon tearing up with joy.

"Thank God." She hoarsely said. For a minute she lay there, catching her breath and energy once more. But with a scraping sound that resided the floor above her, Molly roused her aching limbs to function. She climbed to her feet, immediately she staggered at the lack of feeling her legs and arms. That same pain from before was still present, her foot throbbed as if to agree.

With her weight being forced on the opposite leg, Molly limped her way towards the door, knife in hand. There she waited just behind where it would open up, hiding her from the next person who entered. She shivered noticeably when she squashed herself against the wall, spine becoming cool and wet from the moist stones. There she waited, knife held out in front of her as footsteps made their way towards the entrance.

* * *

 

"Bastard!" Than screamed out, trying to slip from Sherlock's grasp as he tried to jab an elbow into his face. Luckily Sherlock caught it, and forced it into an comfortable position, pushing it to the point of break. There he had access to the heaving chest of Than, and with the heel of his palm, he struck at his windpipe.

The crunch he heard was satisfying, but not nearly enough for what this man has done to Molly. And ignoring the blunt fingernails that scratched at his face, seeking to gouge his eyes out, Sherlock's seized hold of the other's hair.

_Thud...Thud...Thud..._

Blood dripped from Than's head and onto Sherlock, getting on his face as he smacked the killer's skull against the floor. Just as he was about to do it for the fourth time, and fully render Than unconscious with a fractured skull, air whizzed by his chest. He pushed himself away when he saw the flash of glass, a chunk of it from the mug that had fallen with them. Than gripped a shard of it, and made a move to stab at him again. This time he made contact, slicing the fabric along his belly and getting a narrow cut along it.

Sherlock ignored the pain, and rolled out of the way when the weapon danced in the space between them. "You're just fucking like him!" Than yelled, and blindly threw himself at Sherlock, vision impaired by the blood that matted his hair to his face.

* * *

 

As soon as the door swung open, Molly leapt forward with her knife ready. "Fuck!" Came the response, and an arm automatically blocked her path to any vital organs. The blade sliced along the surface, barely nicking when Molly was on the ground again. She cried out as her knife was flung across the room, and away from her clawing hands. She struggled against the grip holding her onto the ground, bending her arms away from her captor.

"Greg, stop! That's Molly!" The hands left her then, and she groaned in relief. While she blinked against the lights that shone from the fixture, a pair of warm hands brushed against her body, gently probing as they made their way across. Snap snap. A hand was suddenly forced in front of her eyes, trying to get her attention.

"Molly can you hear me? It's John. You're safe now." She followed that hand to its arm, and then slowly to the shoulder and face that belonged to it. John Watson smiled at her, pulling her into his arms and away from the ground.

"Wher... Where's Sherlock?" She said with a shiver, confused when she felt a light weight being placed on her shoulders. A jacket, Greg's.

John shook his head, "Is it just you two?" She nodded. "We'll be fine here, Greg."

Solemnly he nodded, snapping his head towards the door when another crash shook the building. With a comforting glance towards Molly, Greg was bounding out of the room and up the stairs.

* * *

 

A grunt left Sherlock's mouth with a cracking hiss, and he focused his stare on the glass that was dangerously close to his throat. Than was half way on top of him, and was attempting to force his hand downwards. The only thing that stopped this from happening was Sherlock's hands that curled around the glass, cut to ribbons as they pressed against and away from him. Panting he struck at Than with one of his folded legs, catching the side of his hip and giving enough force to put him off balance. With a groan, that neither knew who it belonged to, the fragment was tossed an arm length away. While Than's face transformed into outrage, Sherlock's fist made contact with his face for the second time that night.

Than was quick to recover, faster than Sherlock expected, and was reaching out for his throat once more. As they rolled on the floor, capturing glass on their clothes, Lestrade burst into the room.

He then proceeded to say something, that even in his struggle for his own life and safety, Sherlock deemed idiotic. "Stop, or I'll shoot!"

Sure enough he was holding a gun, but he couldn't really focus on the killer with his limbs intermingled with Sherlock's. But the other was startled long enough for Sherlock to get another good solid punch at the side of his face, only this time he crumpled like a piece of paper in a hurricane. Greg was then by his side, dragging the body off of him and cuffing his wrists together.

"Is Molly safe?" Sherlock wheezed, his heart was pounding in his ears like a drum.

"Yeah, John's with her and that fellow of her's."

Sherlock pulled himself up using the counter,  his head swam and his vision became speckled with swirling dots, he smiled. "Good." He made his way around the counter, shoes cracking against the still remaining glass, and sat at the closest table. "Get one of your officers to get me a coffee." He coughed out, laying his head on the table as the stress he felt left his body.

Greg shook his head, fingering the wound on his arm as he reached into his pant's pocket and grabbed his phone.


	18. The White Room

A pair of brown eyes opened up to muted light, something that went with the throb that tickled her bones and mind. She was alone in a room, wired up to a device that calmly took note of her heartbeat. Molly rose her head in attention at the sound of door hinges creaking and watched as someone stepped inside of the room to join her.

"Good, you're awake."

She gave an exhausted smile as he sat down in the chair beside her bed, equally looking as worn out as she did. "What's this? No hello for your hero?"

Despite herself and how shitty she felt, Molly gave a short laugh. "A charmer as always, Greg." She ran a hand through her own hair, skimming over the tangles and knots.

"What can I say, I've got a way with women." He gave a loud chuckle, but both were reminded of his divorce with his wife and the affair she had. Neither spoke of it, however they didn't need to. The memory and the gossip was lurking in the fronts of their thoughts and the effect aged Greg considerably.

"How long have I been out?" Molly asked, wiping at the feel of her face. It felt disgusting and crusty and he pondered her appearance and what Greg must think of her. Suddenly she was glad of the lack of mirror in her hospital room.

Greg sat back in his chair, rubbing at his trouser leg in consideration. It was a minute before he cleared his throat and would meet her questioning gaze. "Shy of three days. We were worried that you'd take even longer to wake up, but the doctor explained that you needed the time to heal and absorb the shock of everything."

Molly struggled to think straight as she face this new knowledge, but that was rather hard to do. "Where is everyone?" It sounded cold, but it fit right in with how she felt. Why was Greg the only one to visit her? Surely someone cared enough about her?... Did they?

"Your friend Meena is talking with Mike Stamford about getting your things, and Mary went out to get some decent coffee."

"...What about John?"

Greg rose a brow, the clarity of his knowledge squeezed at Molly's heart. She was glad he understood and didn't make her say it aloud, she didn't know if she could. "John had some work to do, a nasty car accident happened just yesterday. _Sherlock_ has vanished to be with some relatives for a couple of days."

"Oh."

Greg sighed, "Not like that, Molly. He wanted to be here, he really did. Hell, he was here for the whole time you were out. Wouldn't let a doctor touch his own injuries, was too busy looking after yourself. Nearly socked a nurse in the face."

Molly hummed, "Is he all right then?"

"He should be, nothing hurt too bad. Minor things really, just like yourself. John told me that these relatives of his, they went berserk when they found out about his cuts. He's holed up somewhere, trying to escape being baby fed and mulled over every half second."

Once again the door creaked open, revealing a flushed Mary, holding an armful of scalding cups of coffee. "Oh good, you're awake!" 

* * *

_  
Five Days Later_

After her wounds had healed up enough and the press outside of St Barts was bought off by an anonymous individual, Molly was free to return home. When she stepped through the doorway to her living room, she was pleased and surprised to find it covered in expensive flower arrangements. There was a few from her co-workers and her friends, but the majority belonged to that same person that got rid of those pesky reporters. Molly begged endlessly about any information, but John and Greg would only share a look. Meena didn't know anything, so that only left Mary. She was the worst, at least the others had the decency to appear guilty when asked. The blonde woman only smiled in response and gave vague riddles to tease Molly, so quickly she gave up on the individual's identity. But she had her suspicions.

It was in the afternoon when she got her first text from him. The violent vibration that came from her cell gave her a large jolt, begging for a pair of idle thumbs and eyes as it shook along the wood of her dresser. Groaning at the fact she had to get up, slowly she made her way over to the device and gave her messages a glance.

3 new message(s) received from: Sherlock Holmes

_It should be arriving any minute now. SH_

_Open it. SH_

_Please. SH_

For a second she wondered if he meant to send her these texts, and if he would realize his mistake. She didn't have long to dwell on it, as her flat whined with her doorbell being pressed. Her body was set on some strange edge as she hesitantly walked down the hallway and to her front door, unlocked it with a final click. When opened, there was only an empty space. Confused at the lack of person, courier at least, she peered beyond the door frame before she noticed the box on her doorstep. Scooping the hefty thing into her arms, she made her retreat and locked the door.

Striding into her living room, she sat on her couch with a sigh. The box was dressed in a shiny green material, something reserved for expensive stores and clients. Yanking on the lavender ribbon that wrapped around the rectangle, she parted the strands like she would a flower's petals. And sure enough, the ribbon came off with the lid to present its contents to the young woman.

Inside were four things, a feather the colour of ink dried in the sun, a small pile of books. Molly recognized two of them, the classic written by Jane Austen, her own copy was tarnished by old age and accidental mishaps that involved tea, _Pride and Prejudice_. And the Dystopian made by George Orwell, _1984_.

Most were aware of her love of romance, and _Pride and Prejudice_ was a well thought of choice. But the latter? Few knew of that. And the fact that it was a gift from Sherlock was more of an unusual predicament. Lastly on the bottom was a clearly older edition of a book and was wrapped in a clear tissue. The pages were yellowed with faint brown spots, and the brittle spine had a constant caution of breaking if mishandled.

Molly had to squint to see the title, which was imprinted into the cover, _The Heart of Gold_. Her cell gave another shake, and she made haste to read it.

_I'm trying the only way I know how. So please be patient. SH_

Inspired by what was and wasn't said, Molly wrote and deleted a dozen messages before she sent one that she was happy with.

_As terribly confused as I am, I won't stop you. Thank you for the books and feather, they're lovely. MH_

He didn't reply, but she expected that. 

 

The next day she still heard nothing from the world and Sherlock, and was left  alone with Toby and her thoughts. Those she wished she could store away on a high shelf where she couldn't reach or in her closet, but she figured that a certain detective would find them in contrast to her efforts. 

* * *

 

Sherlock frowned as he gazed through the window, misted in the early morning and was a tad bit difficult to look through. Still he tried his best, staring at the emerald hills that stretched out before being cut off by elderly and dismal trees that groaned and creaked with their self importance. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he choose to ignore it. If he didn't, then he'd just stare at the screen blankly for half an hour.

"Will?"

For the sake of the concerned and tender voice he turned away from the glass, and was rewarded with shaking hands that smoothed over the creases in his face. 

"They look better."

He blinked for a second before he reached a hand towards the bandage placed hazardously on his cheek, a small cut endured from his battle. "Yes, they should be gone in no time." He mumbled, rubbing at the texture of it. The fingers that trailed over were taken up in a cool hand, pressing them away from the wound.

"You know I hate it when you mumble."

Sherlock bit back a sigh, favouring a childish pout as he steeled himself against his mother's lecturing. "Yes, I'm quite aware, Mum. You've certainly made enough comments on it."

His mother rolled her eyes at his slouched form, reaching hand towards his hair to give it a good tousle. Immediately Sherlock tried to pull away, only half wincing when his bandages rubbed against the fabric of his shirt. It was pointless, they had already sunk into the curls of his hair, pulling and parting as they went. "Mother!" He groaned, but was yanked even closer into the embrace of the greatly aged woman. He pretended to thrash away for a few fleeting seconds, but contently settled into her soft grasp.

"Am I interrupting something?" Mycroft's voice rang out, and Sherlock then tried to shy any in earnest. That was short lived however, as his mother raised the two geniuses and was quite accustomed to their tricks and games. Pulling her son's hunched form even closer to herself, Violet looked over his shoulder with a laughing smile.

"Calm down, Mikey. Green doesn't suit you."

Mycroft Holmes sputtered on his own breath, and stepped back in dignified scorn. "I-I am not jealous, Mummy!" Mycroft whipped his head back towards Sherlock at the sound of tongue-tied laughter, which Sherlock relished in from the fortification of his mother's arms. There not even the British government could strike him down, and Mycroft knew it.

"Don't raise your voice at me, _Mycroft_. And there's nothing to be ashamed about, Sherlock just needs more attention at this time. He's faced a lot, more then I could ever like." Those hands he's remembered throughout his childhood ran through his hair, mirroring as they did so during late nights, times where he couldn't fall asleep with all of the thoughts and terrors that raced through his head. From this cushion he grinned at his older brother, delighted when jealousy did flair up from the other's face.

His brother always did hate being bested, especially if it came to their parent's approval and affection. And at the moment Sherlock was unreachable from his brother's spidery ways, and all of the repercussions he would stand against. "Do relax, Myc. I'm sure Mum would spare a hug for you, if you behave."

"Mother do you not see the way he's smiling?!"

"Oh for heavens sake."

* * *

 

The following day Molly was once again startled with another message from her favourite detective, she read it out a loud to Toby.

_Don't use these all at once. SH_

The box that arrived was a very light pink, to the point where it was almost white in nature. Wrapped around in blue ribbon this time, the box's width was certainly larger than the last. And with the cryptic text still ringing in her ears, she tore it open.

Inside was a small bottle of bubble bath that was scented like bubble gum, a metal container filled with loose tea leaves, something mint flavoured that helped with sleeping. And a silver pocket watch, adorned in climbing ivy and wild flowers. That trinket appeared to be quite valuable, perhaps even from the Victorian era.

_How did you know about my trouble with sleeping? Did John or Mary tell you? MH_

It was a half an hour later when he responded, at that time Molly had already given up hope. But when her cell shook once more, it curled around her chest, sticking to her ribs.

_I haven't spoken to the Watsons since we stormed the coffee house. To answer your question, it's because I'm having issues with it too. SH_

She didn't know what to say and spent the last remaining hours trying to think about the best approach. But when the stars peeked beyond the heavy blankets of clouds, Molly was asleep with her cell clutched tightly in her hand.

* * *

 

On the fourth day, Mary showed up with her rounded belly and with the gift of sappy romance movies to watch. They spent the whole day absorbing every film, chewing on chocolates and the microwaveable popcorn Molly found in the back of one of her cupboards.

Mrs. Watson wasn't really into them and didn't take any to heart, but regarded each as a sort of comedy. Molly however, couldn't remember the plot or characters. She kept thinking about the gifts Sherlock sent her, and the purpose behind it. When they had just finished watching the Notebook, something that always made her cry. Molly was surprised further when her long time friend Meena showed up, with bottles of wine no less.

Hours later when they were flushed with glittering eyes and loose tongues, Molly told them about the messages and Sherlock, but only when she had finished a better portion of a bottle of red wine flavoured like strawberries and distant summer memories. Meena was just as out of it as she was, with quite a loud voice that bounced off of the walls, told her how to thank Sherlock for his presents. This rendered Molly into a state that was caught between laughing her head off and choking on her own spit.

Of course Mary, when she spoke out, made the most sense. Perhaps due to the fact she hadn't had any of the wine, she was pregnant with her first child after all! "Why don't you just ask?"

"What?" Molly coughed, rubbing at the gauze that was still around her ribs.

"Ask him. Text Sherlock, 'Oh by the way, why are you acting nice to me?' Or if you want to follow Meena's advice, 'I have a mystery you can solve, it's called the reappearance of Molly Hooper's libido. The crime scene is my cl-"

"You don't understand, he got me books."

"And?"

"And," Molly started again, glancing  at Meena who was sleeping on her couch, wine glass still clutched tightly in hand. "One of them was _The Heart Of Gold_. Have you heard of it?"

Mary shook her head, popping another melting piece of chocolate into her mouth.

"The piece isn't really well known, but the author is. The name she used was Mrs. L. T. Meade, and she was a prolific writer. She wrote over 300 books, a majority of which were for young readers."

"So he got you a book meant for little girls?"

"Well... I-I, that's not the point!"

Mary settled her rear further into the couch, licking the smears of chocolate left on her fingers. "Go on." She hummed, amused as the woman seated beside her tried to get her bearings with her hazy mind.

"Mrs. L. T. Meade," Molly begun once again, "wasn't her real name. She was born Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith in Ireland, and she was alive from 1844 to 1914. The book Sherlock got me, _The Heart of Gold_ , was first published in 1890."

"All right, but why does this all matter?"

"Because he aimed for things I enjoyed, and more importantly, time periods I found interesting."

Crinkling her nose in confusion, Mary frowned at her brown haired friend, "And that's bad because...?"

"It means he's going to follow this theme and plan something big and important. You know how obsessed he is with details."

"Or he's doing this as an apology and was generally worried, and still is over your well-fair. He knows... or at least deduced how you felt about past time periods, and is attempting to mend the issues between you." Mary pointed out with a raised brow.

"No, that can't be it at all." A phone pinged, and Molly was grasping her cell in an instant. But to her disappointment it was Mary's phone that made the sound, who didn't hide the fact that she enjoyed the message sent.

"John?"

Mary shook her head, "He's still recovering from all the days spent without the proper amount of sleep. No, it's his best friend."

"What, Sherlock?!" She scrambled over to push herself against Mary's side, which was a tad hard to do with her belly getting in the way. "What's he talking to you about, can I see?"

In response, Mary pressed her back into the arm of the couch, holding her cell away from Molly's fingers and eyes. "I don't think so. Can't a gal text her friend's secret admirer and not tell her about it?"

Molly snorted, holding up a hand to list off the things wrong with that. "First off all, it isn't a secret if I can bloody read his name from my messages. Not to mention it'd be much better if he texted from an unknown number, but he'd probably know I wouldn't respond if that happened. Another thing, Sherlock doesn't admire a thing about me. We have a rocky friendship at best, and even that's stretching the truth."

"A rocky friendship that involves sending gifts that you clearly love and craving after one another?" To make her point stand even clearer, Mary nodded to the book that sat on Molly's coffee table. It was clearly half read through without the intention of ever being stopped, with a bookmark jutting out of the pages.

"Okay, I may find Sherlock... pleasant to look at. But he doesn't feel the same."

"Molly, you're so completely wrong that I'm caught between laughing and crying for you."

* * *

 

While Molly fumed at the words and searched her mind for any way that could be true, Mary texted away at the man on everyone's mind.

_How is she taking it? SH_

_Pretty well. She claims that you have some massive plan, probably to do with world domination. All right, the last bit was me. But seriously, she's paranoid over it. MW_

_I think she's mistaking me for my brother. I don't blame her, not after what's happened. SH_

_Speaking of which, isn't it odd that her lover or whatever he was, hasn't been messaging her? I think Molly's relieved, but she still wants answers. MW_

_...Sherlock? MW_

_...You had something to do with that, didn't you? Come on, out with it! MW_

_I won't deny it, I've asked another favour from him. Every phone call or text he sends to Molly has been deleted, blocked, or redirected. A few times he's tried to arrive at Molly's flat, but traffic or strange occurrences with the public transit or taxis has prevented him from arriving. SH_

_Good. And your brother is fine with all of this? Isn't it a lot of work to do? MW_

_Yes, but we've come to an... understanding. SH_

_Hm, I'll let you off of the hook for now. But can I ask you a question, or at least to make up for it? MW_

_If you must. SH_

_What are you planning? And can I help? MW_

_That was two questions. SH_

_Whatever, just answer it! MW_

_Fine. But I'll have to call you later with the details, I'm busy at the moment. SH_

* * *

 

"Molly?" Mary called out, seizing the waning attention of the woman in question. The form reduced to mush from the wine she had consumed, gave a short lived whine. Still, at least she rose her head from her arms and groggily blinked at Mary. "What's  _The Heart of Gold_ about?"

Molly licked at her chapped lips, furrowing her brow as she pulled at the threads of remembrance in her mind. _What had been the plot?_ After a couple of moments, finally she caught grasp of it.

"There's these two sisters, Jocelyn and Hope. Without their father, Mrs. Karron - the mother, raises them by herself, but at the same time is used to being surrounded by luxury. It gets to the point where they're very poor and in debt. Mrs. Karron has a nasty stroke, partially because of the stress of everything, and the harsh reality that she bought one too many gowns. On her death bed, she says the only thing that can save her is if her sister can send her £2,000."

"I'm guessing this sister is rich?" Molly started to nod, but when the room began to shake and spin, she soon stopped. To take her mind off of it, she let the words burst from her lips once more.

"Yep. Practically lives in a palace or something, so the money shouldn't have been a problem. Anyway, Aunt Margaret Seaton says no and her sister dies. Poor and orphaned, Jocelyn and Hope mourn for a while. It gets to the point where Hope decides to fight for survival and actually works for once in her life. That sort of life isn't suited for Jocelyn, so she makes this huge plan to live with their aunt. Meanwhile Hope has never forgiven Aunt Margaret for saying no, so she and her sister part ways."

"So what is this, some self discovery book?"

Shrugging her heavy shoulders, Molly wiped at the corners of her eyes, trying to get rid of the desire to sleep. Lately her dreams were more like nightmares, but these terrors were closer to real life. Again and again she replayed that eary morning, tied up and afraid as she listened to the sound of footsteps approaching her room. Usually the attacker was Than, but on worse nights, it was Sherlock that stepped out from the shadows. Those she found herself startled awake, sweaty flesh sticking to the sheets of her bed, clawing and gasping for air.

"A bit, but its more about romance. Hope finds herself in a relationship with Mr. Markham, you know his type, distant and cold in the beginning. And then warm at the end, but only when his true feelings are revealed."

Mary shook her head, "Do you still not honestly see the connection?"

"What?"

"Oh, never mind. I'll talk to you when you're not drunk and can think straight." And with a loud huff, Mary climbed to her feet and offered her friend a smile before she gathered her things and headed off. Molly didn't have long to think about what was said, as she was swept up in a dreamless sleep that she was so thankful for that she could cry. 

 


	19. Confronting The Flowers

She awoke on the subtly of her bed and was reassured by the feel of every bend and spring that poked her spine with fondness. Sunlight positively baked the room, like a toad warming up in the frankness of it, she was numb to everything besides absorbing the sheer heat. Molly fought the desire to stay in her bed, but the thirst the heat brought became too great. Begrudgingly she forced her limbs to cooperate, stumbling out of its comfort and into her kitchen.

"How did I..." she started, but let the words fall into the quiet hue of her home.  _How did I get into my bed?_ It didn't matter, she probably just tucked herself in and forgot. Or that's what she settled with. Sloppily twisting the tap on for her sink, Molly stuck her head directly under the faucet, too tired to make the journey to one of the cupboards for a mere glass. The water was cool from the metal, the lines of liquid dripped from her chin and down the contour of her neck, causing her to shiver as it disappeared under her neckline. Molly closed her eyes, greedily gulping down any of the water she managed to get into her mouth.

It was quite a while before the taste of spoiled strawberries and sand left the presence of her tongue, but she only surfaced because her lungs ached with the need for oxygen.

Toby whined with a high pitched chirp, he continued by pawing at her calf.

"What?" Molly croaked, gasping for air as she slapped the tap off and removed her head from the sink. The cool droplets trailed through her shirt, wetting it and the gauze that was hidden underneath. It made its final descent near her stomach, and her nerves were snapped up with an innumerable amount of goosebumps.

Toby cried out even louder, glaring as he tip toed around her figure before his fluffy mass sprinted towards the hallway. A knock lurked within her flat, dull at first before it raised Molly's hair further on end. She glanced down to her body, clad in wrinkled pajamas. A shirt with a smiling but colourful skull that said, "A little poison never hurt anyone, just look at me!" And some ratty shorts that Molly should have thrown out ages ago, but never found herself having the heart.

It would have to do. Grumbling under her breath as she went, slowly she made her way back to the front entrance. And after making several attempts to tell the person on the other side to calm down, she made certain to give them a tongue lashing as the incessant knocking increased in volume. "What?!" She hissed into the morning air, skin tickled by the light let in as she flung open the door.

Dressed rather dapper in a set of pressed trousers and a white dress shirt, rolled up to his elbows, Sherlock presented the bouquet that had been hidden behind his back. He offered a smile crookedly lifted, caught between being his smug self and a genuine smile.

All of the frustration Molly felt disappeared, and was replaced by confusion. She dropped her gaze to the flowers held in front of her, an arrangement that was different than the ones that decorated her house.

The meanings that these flowers held were not lost on her, nor Sherlock. He was aware as she was of the book on her living room shelf, one that was created during one of her favourite eras to translate their meanings. When Sherlock had stayed at her flat, he had even commented on it, and on rare occasion even gave it a glance over. White tulips were for _forgiveness_ , while red was for _declarations of love_. The pink roses that were gently peeking out were for either for _admiration_ or _appreciation_ , but lastly the violets, those translated into _loyalty_ and utter _devotion_.

Molly cleared her throat, "Sherlock, you do realize what this means?"

"Yes" he stepped forward, making sure he was closer to the doorway and to her, "but do you?"

She shook her head, unsure what he was playing at.

"Can I come inside?" She hesitated, slowly bringing the door to a close. But Sherlock caught onto the lip of the wood, stopping her from shutting it. He bore into her eyes, hoping that she understood what he was after, "Please, Molly?"

Finally on her own accord, she stepped back so he could come inside and shut the light out once more. "Don't make me regret this." Molly mumbled. Sherlock fixed her with a stare. A smile was so easy to flicker its way across of his face, "You won't." They both doubted those words.

* * *

 

He didn't start talking until both of them were sitting on the couch, separated by an awkward distance and a placed pillow. "How is your foot?"

Molly glanced back up, startled by the sudden conversation. Sherlock still clutched the flowers, she hadn't reached out to accept them yet, but she expected that to be the first thing out of his mouth. An explanation for what was going on and his odd behavior, but because with her hangover Molly couldn't even think straight.

"It's all right, the doctor said it was a light sprain. Just have to go easy on it, and it should be fine. How is...?" She had trouble not looking at the bandages that littered Sherlock's face, especially when there was images of pirates and flowers that covered them.

"Equally good, I was lucky to get away with a few cuts and bruises. I don't really need the bandages but my... my mother insisted on them." He made a sour expression at that.

Molly scooted a bit closer to Sherlock, bringing the pillow with her, "Mary told me about what happened, after I was released. She said that you got in a fight with...with the killer."

He shrugged his shoulders, "It isn't that big of a deal, Molly. I did what anyone would do when someone they care about is in trouble. Hell, I'd save John even if he continued to wear that horrendous sweater of his."

The woman beside him chewed on her bottom lip, heart pounding in her ears with his words."D-Do you really mean that?"

"Of course I do, we all have our quirks. John's is tormenting me, and in this case it's in the form of hedgehog themed clothing."

"No not that! I mean about caring about me. Do you?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, "In my own way, yes. Molly, I never meant to hurt you. Never you, not with all you've done for me. I just... I was being selfish and I didn't want to see you getting hurt. Can you forgive me?"

 _An apology from Sherlock, and all it took was getting kidnapped and tortured_ , Molly thought with disbelieving shake of her head. "I'll forgive you, Sherlock, but I have to clear the air. Even if you do get upset, I won't allow you to just walk over me, I'm not some dog. And you didn't need to buy me presents to get me to like you, if you felt this way, you should have just talked to me."

"Fair enough."

"Now, can you please explain the flowers? They're giving me a headache."

Sherlock frowned at her, pulling the bundle closer to his person, "Is the scents affecting your hangover in some way? Should I get rid of them?"

"No," Molly squinted at them, "they're nice. I just can't figure out why you got them, and the effort isn't helping matters. And wait a minute! Who said I was drinking?!"

Sherlock laughed, "Come on, Molly, you reek of cheap wine! It wasn't hard to deduce." The glare she sent him in return, swiftly reminded Sherlock that now wasn't the best time and moment to be making observations. "Sorry" he grunted.  "I'm new to romance, the kind that doesn't involve faking a relationship or seducing someone to catch a killer or thief. So I asked Mary for some advice, particularly on starters, which flowers seem to be essential for. But I couldn't just pick up something from the nearest florist or ask for my brother's personal assistant to grab an arrangement." He coughed, finding the threading of Molly's carpet more interesting to look at than the actual woman herself. "I knew you enjoyed the language of flowers, and so do I, so I borrowed a couple of books from the local library and made this up."

Sherlock sighed, but then he twisted around so he stared into the eyes of his pathologist. This was his chance, to tell her what has been plaguing him night and day since he realized his feelings.

"Molly Hooper, these flowers give meaning to what I feel about you. But even then they can't touch a tenth of the emotions I contain. The admiration and appreciation I hold for your intelligence, and how selfless you are when someone is in need. The loyalty I hold towards you and how I'd never wish you to be in harms way. How forgiving you are, though we all know I don't deserve it. Not when I hurt your feelings countless times. I never realized how much I depended on you until I almost lost you."

"S-Sherlock, you don't hav-"

"And lastly..." He swiftly cut off, glancing down to the words he had scribbled on his hand an hour before. They were a little smudged, but only because he was sweating enough to fill a lake. "These red tulips are for my strongest emotion towards you. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

It was five whole minutes before Molly found herself able to speak, and that was only to croak out, "D-did you just steal that last line from Pride and Prejudice?"

He flushed at being caught, "Yes, it was another thing Mary suggested. Mr. Darcy seems to have quite a following, yourself included, so I couldn't see the issue in trying. But the real question is how do you respond?"

* * *

 

Raphel panted loudly, chest heaving as he burst into the room with a massive bang. With the impact of the door hitting the wall, it shook the foundation of the flat. The pair that sat on the couch snapped upwards to behold his entrance. "I'm here, Molly. And not even the shadows and people dressed in suits can prevent me from explaining myself!"

"Raphel!?" Molly sputtered out, quick to climb onto her feet. But before she could get a couple of steps towards him, she was pulled back to the side of Sherlock. She frowned as she looked up to see his cold expression, eyes searching Raphel's with a sneer.

"Explain what, Raphel? How you're a victim in all of this, and how you're _sorry?"_  

The man addressed stepped back in surprise, startled to find Molly pressed against Sherlock Holmes. "But I am innocent!" He settled on hissing, finally forgetting his plight with seeing the dark haired detective and closed the distance between them.

"Innocent? You're far from it. Why? Because you didn't physically kill them? You did in every other sense."

"Molly, don't listen to him!" Raphel begged, whites of his eyes shown as he wildly looked between them.

Sherlock moved in closer, "You were aware of Than's sentiment towards you, encouraged it. You got to a point where you slept with him to get unrestricted access to the cafe and poems to use on the women you found. With your gambling addiction, you needed money for the debt you made with some loan sharks. So you sweet talked some girls who frequented the cafe into a couple of dates, slept with them, and then either convinced them to give you some money or stole it while they were sleeping the morning after."

Raphel blanched, trembling as he yelled out "But that doesn't mean I killed them." Suddenly aware of what he suggested, he quickly added "N-not to say that any of that is true..."

"Oh, but it is." Sherlock said with a bitter chuckle, "When the first girl popped up, you were suspicious. But when you heard about Lucretia you knew, but you didn't say anything, not even when you noticed Than's increasing moods and dislike for Molly here."

"Raphel, is that true?" The brunette whispered, chest squeezing painfully with this development.

"I..."

"Come on, Raphel. Just admit it."

He swallowed the lump that resided in his throat, "I...I had an inkling, but I thought he'd grow out of it. Move on." Raphel strode over to where Molly stood, ignoring when Sherlock tensed up and half hid her behind his back. "Molly, you have to realize. Despite what he or anyone says, I do care about you." He tried to reach for her face, but she moved away from those tan fingers.

"Were you ever going to help me, before I cut myself out? Or did you hope that I'd be killed and you'd be spared?" With his silence, Molly knew her answer. Not able to bear the sight of him, she whispered "I think you should leave."

"Molly!" Raphel whined, reaching out once more. His fingertips had just brushed against her right cheekbone when she struck him, a steady fist that had him propelled backwards before he landed with a crash onto the hardwood floor. He let out a groan, inching himself away as he held up a shaking hand to his nose. It did little to stop the blood that spouted from it, and in turn he glared at her. "You broke my nose, you bitch!"

Wishing to draw this chapter to a close, Sherlock stalked over to him and dragged Raphel out the door by the collar of his buttoned shirt. Ignoring that the Spaniard swore and cursed at him, he kicked him away from Molly's flat. Waiting until he stumbled away in shame and anger, Sherlock then returned and locked the door.

* * *

 

She was waiting, pulling him into a hug. Not one for sentimental displays, Sherlock froze up for a moment. But the sound of Molly's sobs had the detective's resolve breaking in two and he awkwardly held her in his arms. It took Molly a while to calm herself down enough to speak, but eventually she raised her head from Sherlock's now tear stained shirt.

"I guess you want your answer now, huh?" She said with an attempt at laughter.

Sherlock shook his head, "It doesn't have to be right now, not after that."

Molly moved away from his arms and immediately he missed the contact. An unfamiliar emotion was ripping his heart to pieces, and he hated it.

"But I do, I feel like its a massive weight. And I need it gone if I want to heal." She grabbed his large hands in hers, and smiled weakly at him, "Sherlock, you know how I feel about you. How I felt for you in the years I've know you, but everyone at St Barts could tell you that. Two weeks ago I would have cried with joy with this whole thing, but now...I can't. Not after this, I can't just rush into a relationship."

Sherlock blinked, "I-if that's how you feel, then I understand."

"No you don't, Sherlock." Molly said with a sigh, "I'm not saying I don't love you, I really do. But I'd much rather be taking baby steps, a new start."

"From the beginning?"

She fought back an obvious smile as she nodded, staring at their joined hands. Sherlock smiled as he dropped one, shaking the other that he still held onto.

"If that's the case, my name is Sherlock Holmes. I enjoy solving cases, especially those that involve murder, bees, pirates, and sorting my Mind Palace."

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I'm Molly Hooper, and I like cheesy romance movies, cats, and dissecting corpses at my lab."

"The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Hooper." And Sherlock then leaned down to press a gentle kiss on the hand he still held.

"Sherlock, baby steps. Remember?" Molly chastised, but blushed all the same.

"Ah, right. Sorry."

 


	20. Everything Ends

_Six months later._

She smiled to herself, calmly looking at the long draft she had created a month prior. It was finally complete, something she had to find the nerve to do. Graciously John had lent her access to his blog, to post her own adventures and strife with the recently caught serial killer. It spoke of her fears, denial, and doubt in Sherlock. It felt as if she was finally able to get rid of her connection to that tragedy, it was time to move on.

She dragged the mouse over to the 'Post' button, hovering as she assured herself with a large and healthy inhale of air. With a nod, as if to say farewell, she clicked it. A warm kiss was pressed against the skin of her shoulder, bare as the over sized shirt she wore slid to one side. She smiled again, brightly this time.

"So you finally posted it."

"Yep, the whole world can see my experiences now." She turned around in her chair to face her boyfriend, Sherlock. "Or at least the portion that follows John's blog."

"Ah, then Mike, Lestrade, Anderson, and Mrs. Hudson."

"Are you always this sassy in the morning?" Molly laughed, delighted when he leaned in to press his forehead against hers.

"Only when I don't get enough sleep." Sherlock admitted, and snorted when his pathologist was quick to point out.

"So always?"

He bit softly on her bottom lip, kissing it to say, "Maybe. It depends on the frequency of your visits. Again, always."

Molly giggled, pulling away. She flashed the detective a smile, wrapping her hands around his neck and into the curls of his hair. They weren't always like this, it took a lot of trial and error until they got it right. Even then, sometimes Sherlock slipped back into his obnoxious self and irritated her, but those fights were quickly resolved with a well timed kiss.

Molly had to learn to trust Sherlock again, to consider their friendship even with the obvious sexual tension and constant reminder of how he quoted Jane Austen to her. After that, slowly they started dating. In fact their first date was such a complete calamity that it had Molly accidentally setting a restaurant's curtains on fire and Sherlock with the back of his trousers ripped to shreds. The press ran nothing but stories on Sherlock's underpants for a whole week, whether the bee covered garment was either boxers or briefs.

Rightfully so, both were mortified. And since then, they've decided to bring takeout or make homemade meals at only their respective homes. With a rather large shout, Molly was drawn into the air and removed from her computer and desk. Sherlock only released her when they stumbled into her bed, something that the pair had recently left. Back once again, Sherlock gave an immediate kiss to Molly's temple before he made his way along her jawline and neck.

The young woman gave a comforted sigh, letting her eyes close as she tilted her head to give him more room to work. And work he did, Sherlock pulled and strummed her nerves as he would with an instrument. Every lavish kiss and bite he placed, randomized in being as tender as the movement caused by a butterfly's wings or a teasing nip that had Molly's body reeling from the scrape of teeth against skin.

"Eager are we?" She whispered, though there was no reason. But if she talked, Molly felt that it would tarnish this moment, it was one of those rare times where Sherlock could convey how he felt without sounding like a pompous ass. He merely hummed, popping the couple of buttons that kept one of his borrowed shirts on Molly's person. Spread open, Sherlock pushed past the fabric to caress the swell of her breasts. They weren't as small as he originally suggested, but he knew the hurt he caused that Christmas party was already done. Mumbling praise, he inched closer, and pressed a gentle kiss there. Right above the heart.

Climbing his way back up, Sherlock kissed the pale skin of his lover's clavicle, free hand travelling to yank that bit of panties from Molly's person. "Would you, my dear?" Without saying a single word, she rose her rear up, letting him remove the piece with relative ease. Meanwhile, she offered him a blind grin in encouragement. Having to do the rest of the work, hastily she kicked it off, sending it soaring across the room to only land in a small heap on her computer's keyboard.

Molly finally peeled her eyes open, decadent browns swirling as she bestowed her lover with a kiss to his temple, opposite to her own. Smiling, when his eyelashes fluttered with her affection, she eyed the chest that blocked her view of her room. Particularly the faint lines that graced along his ribs, and a sharp guilty pang had Molly chewing on her bottom lip. Weaving her arms through his, she traced them with her fingertips. Only glancing back up when he hissed, she moved to pull them away, but he caught them. Bringing her hand up to his face, he kissed each dainty digit with a curve of his mouth.

She didn't need to ask if she hurt him, already he was shaking his head. To dispel any doubts that may linger, he pressed a kiss on her lips. It was soothing, without the fierce passion from the night before. No, in the calm of the breezy pinks and yellows that stretched across the clouds and sky, this was mellow and filled with quiet understanding. But more importantly, love. Still, she moaned as he nibbled on her lips, sinking her fingers into his hair to plant herself solidly. He only moved to get rid of his own underwear, with a knowing twitch of her features she eyed them.

"If only they knew the answer to the question that has riddled humanity since the beginning of time, Sherlock Holmes wears boxer-briefs."

He silenced her with another kiss, mumbling "Oh, be quiet" but without a significant lack of malice. She laughed into the scent of his locks. His left hand brushed against the jut of her hipbones, a warning, then he entered her. Another sigh bubbled forth from her lips, fast to replace her laughter as it floated around the bedroom. He sent her nerves alight, fixing his head against the crook of her neck as he rocked their bodies in a sweet sway.

With the sound of Sherlock's grunts echoing in her ears, she moaned, gripping the sheets underneath. Sherlock moved up his head to suckle at the pulse that thundered against his talented mouth, chuckling at her hitch in breath. She released her hands, favouring the broad set of shoulders above her instead. Arching so her chest pressed against his, Molly moaned once more.

Weaving his long fingers within his lover's shimmering chestnut locks, he pulled her head towards his. Eagerly they captured one another in a kiss, something that melted on either's tongue like honey. It didn't take long, and with a few more thrusts Sherlock came with a gasping start, bringing Molly along with him. Eyes screwed shut, and painted toes curling against the tossed remains of her comforter, Molly gave a soft cry as pleasure shook her very core.

Only when Sherlock's heart was calmed down enough and his voice was under control, he pulled himself from her and fell to her side. Brushing back the strands that were stuck to his forehead from the sweat their activities caused, he said "I think I'm in serious trouble."

"What did you do?" Molly asked with sudden concern, shifting her weight so she leaned against her elbows. He didn't say anything, gazing at the cracked ceiling above them.

"I'm in love with you."

She smiled. "Well, then that means we're both screwed."

* * *

 

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

_I have walked out in rain—and back in rain._

_I have outwalked the furthest city light._

  

_I have looked down the saddest city lane._

_I have passed by the watchman on his beat._

_And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain._

  

_I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet._

_When far away an interrupted cry._

_Came over houses from another street,_

 

_But not to call me back or say good-by;_

_And further still at an unearthly height,_

_One luminary clock against the sky_

 

_Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right._

_I have been one acquainted with the night._

 

 


End file.
